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THE 


, 


VIDE, WIDE WORLD 




BY 


ELIZABETH WETHERELL. 



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NEW EDITION. 


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ILLUSTRATED 

BY FREDERICK DIELMAN. 


Here at the portal thou dost stand. 

And with ihy little hand 
Thou openest the mysterious gate. 

Into the future’s undiscovered land 
I see its valves expand, 

As at the touch of F atb ! 

Into those realms of Love and Hate. 

Longfellow. 


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PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 

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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, 

<3 P. PUTNAM AND COMPANY, 

n the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the South ru 

District of New York. 


Copyright, 1878, by SUSAN WARNER. 


' 

Copyright, 1892, by J. B. LIPP1NCOTT COMPANY. 


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Printed by J. B.Lippincott Company, Philadelphia. 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGfE 

“ Bear a lily in thy hand” Frontispiece. 

Head-piece to Chapter 1 9 

“ What is the matter, dear mother ?” 11 

“ Her little daughter was now preparing the tea” 23 

“ Mrs. Montgomery’s head sank upon the open page” 42 

“ Ellen, in surprise, took them from him” 53 

“ And there she slept till the dinner-bell rang” 77 

“ Ellen was at length safely stowed in her place” 95 

“You’ll have to go down to the spout” 104 

“ Ellen set out upon her perilous journey” 125 

“The gentle cows standing quietly to be milked” 135 

“ What is the matter, my child ?” 149 

“Oh, Ellen! take him off!” 169 

“ A woman was there stepping briskly back and forth before a large spinning- 

wheel” 188 

“In a few minutes he came in sight” ........ 196 

“ He finished the hymn without more interruption” 215 

“What’s become of that ’ere rocking-cheer?” 235 

“ As soon as she was set free Ellen brought her Bible” 245 

“ Here’s something for ’most all of you, I’m thinking” 258 

“ Alice started to her feet with a slight scream” 273 

“The wide lawns were a smooth spread of snow” 282 

“ I am going to look at my stocking” i 299 

“ Now look out again, Ellie, and listen” 312 

“ Ellen watched him as the bunch grew in his hand” 325 

“Always a basket for flowers went along” 337 

“Here, get out of the way, I’ll do it for you” 358 

“ What a lovely little horse !” 375 

“Mr. Van Brunt was lying in the lower floor” 386 

“ Ellen hardly saw how, it was so quick” 401 

“ They seemed in great doubt, every sheep of them” 422 

“ I think the messenger has come for me” 438 

“ Ellen went next to the two old women” 467 

“The hours thus spent were to Ellen hours of unmixed delight” 483 

“ Mayn’t I come back, if ever I can ?” 497 

“ Why don’t you drink your wine, Ellen ?” 517 

“ A glass door opened upon a small iron balcony” 528 

“ Mr. Lindsay stood still at the door” 545 

“ The calm firm grasp of his hand quieted her” . . 560 


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CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. — Breaking the News 9 

II. — Gives Sorrow to the Winds 15 

III. — The Worth of a Finger-Ring 26 

IV. — The Bitter-Sweet of Life . . . 7 36 

V. — A Peep into the Wide World 43 

VI. — Night and Morning . 56 

VII. — “ Strangers walk as Friends” 65 

VIII. — Leaves ds in the Street 76 

IX. — The Little Queen in the Arm-Chair 88 

X. — Mud — AND WHAT CAME OF IT 101 

XI. — Running away with the Brook 114 

XII. — Splitters 123 

XIII. — Hope Deferred 130 

XIV. — Work not Deferred 137 

XV. — Mother Earth rather than Aunt Fortune 145 

XVI. — Counsel, Cakes, and Captain Parry 156 

XVII. — Difficulty of doing Right 170 

XVIII. — Loses Care on the Cat’s Back 181 

XIX. — Showing that in Some Circumstances White is Black . . 194 

XX.— Headsick and Heartsick 201 

XXI. — Footsteps of Angels 216 

XXII. — Shows hoav Mr. Van Brunt could be Sharp upon Some 

Things 227 

XXIII. — How Miss Fortune went out and Pleasure came in . 236 

XXIV. — Sweeping and dusting 244 

XXV. — Showing what a Noise a Bee can make when it gets into 

the House 252 

XXVI. — Sundry Things round a Pot of Chocolate 265 

XXVII. — The Jingling of Sleigh-Bells 279 

XXVIII. — Scraps — of Morocco and Talk 288 

XXIX. — Stockings, to which the “Bas Bleu” was Nothing. . . . 298 

XXX. — Sunday at Ventnor 305 

XXXI. — Flowers and Thorns ,314 

XXXII. — The Bank-Note and George Washington 326 

XXXIII. — A Gathering Cloud in the Spring Weather 334 

XXXIV. — The Cloud Overhead 342 

XXXV. — This “ Working-Day World” 353 

XXXVI. — The Brownie 371 

XXXVII. — Timothy and His Master 381 

XXXVIII. — Wherein the Black Prince arrives Opportunely .... 393 

XXXIX. — Halcyon Days 403 

XL. — ‘‘Prodigious!” 416 

XLI. — “The Clouds return after the Rain” 425 

XLII. — One Less in the Wide, Wide World 434 

XLIII. — Those that were left 444 

XLIV. — The Little Spirit that haunted the Big House .... 454 

XLV. — The Guardian Angel 468 

XLVI. — “Something turns up” 482 

XLVII. — The Wide World grows Wider 498 

XLVIII. — How Old Friends were invested with the Regalia . . 511 

XLIX. — Thought is Free 527 

- L. — Trials Without 538 

LI. — Trials Within 548 

LII.— “Thou!” 556 


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Enjoy the spring of love and youth, 

To some good angel leave the rest, 

For time will teach thee soon the truth, 

“ There are no birds in last year’s nest.” 

Longfellow. 


what was that I heard papa saying to you 
" s lawsuit?” 

Ellen, pick up that 


this morning about his lawsuit?” 


“ I cannot tell you just now. 
shawl, and spread it over me.” 

“ Mamma ! — are you cold in this warm room ?” 

“ A little, — there, that will do. Now, my daughter, let me be 
quiet awhile — don’t disturb me.” 

There was no one else in the room. Driven thus to her own 
resources, Ellen betook herself to the window and sought amuse- 
ment there. The prospect without gave little promise of it. Rain 
was falling, and made the street and everything in it look dull and 
gloomy. The foot-passengers plashed through the water, and the 
horses and carriages plashed through the mud ; gayety had for- 
saken the sidewalks, and equipages were few, and the people that 
were out were plainly there only because they could not help it. 
But yet Ellen, having seriously set herself to study everything that 
passed, presently became engaged in her occupation ; and her 
**» oughts travelling dreamily from one thing to another, she sat 
a long time with her little face pressed against the window- 
tme, perfectly regardless of all but the moving world without. 

9 



10 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 


Daylight gradually faded away, and the street wore a more and 
more gloomy aspect. The rain poured, and now only an occasional 
carriage or footstep disturbed the sound of its steady pattering. 
Yet still Ellen sat with her face glued to the window as if spell- 
bound, gazing out at every dusky form that passed, as though it 
had some strange interest for her. At length, in the distance, 
light after light began to appear ; presently Ellen could see the 
dim figure of the lamplighter crossing the street, from side to side, 
with his ladder ; then he drew near enough for her to watch him 
as he hooked his ladder on the lamp-irons, ran up and lit the lamp, 
then shouldered the ladder and marched off quick, the light glancing 
on his wet oil-skin hat, rough great coat and lantern, and on the 
pavement and iron railings. The veriest moth could not have fol- 
lowed the light with more perseverance than did Ellen’s eyes, 
till the lamplighter gradually disappeared from view, and the last 
lamp she could see was lit ; and not till then did it occur to her 
that there was such a place as in -doors. She took her face from 
the window. The room was dark and cheerless ; and Ellen felt 
stiff and chilly. However, she made her way to the fire, and 
having found the poker, she applied it gently to the Liverpool coal 
with such good effect that a bright ruddy blaze sprang up, and 
lighted the whole room. Ellen smiled at the result of her experi- 
ment. “ That is something like,” said she to herself ; “ who says 
I can’t poke the fire? Now, let us see if I can’t do something 
else. Do but see how those chairs are standing — one would think 
we had had a sewing-circle here — there, go back to your places, — 
that looks a little better ; now these curtains must come down, and 
I may as well shut the shutters too ; and now this table-cloth must 
be content to hang straight, and mamma’s box and the books must 
lie in their places, and not all helter-skelter. Now, I wish mamma 
would wake up ; I should think she might. I don’t believe she is 
asleep either, she don’t look as if she was.” 

Ellen was right in this ; her mother’s face did not wear the look 
of sleep, nor indeed of repose at all : the lips were compressed, and 
the brow not calm. To try, however, whether she was asleep or 
not, and with the half-acknowledged intent to rouse her at all events, 
Ellen knelt down by her side and laid her face close to her mother’s 
on the pillow. But this failed to draw either word or sign. After 
a minute or two Ellen tried stroking her mother’s cheek very gently ; 
and this succeeded, for Mrs. Montgomery arrested the little hand 
as it passed her lips, and kissed it fondly two or three times. 

“ I haven’t disturbed you, mamma, have I ?” said Ellen. 

Without replying, Mrs. Montgomery raised herself to a sitting 
posture, and lifting both hands to her face, pushed back the hi 
from her forehead and temples, with a gesture which Ellen knel 
meant that she was making up her mind to some disagreeable c\ 


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“ What is the matter, deal mother V* 

Page 11. 








THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 


11 


painful effort. Then taking both Ellen’s hands, as she still knelt 
before her, she gazed in her face with a look even more fond than 
usual, Ellen thought, but much sadder too ; though Mrs. Mont- 
gomery’s cheerfulness had always been of a serious kind. 

“ What question was that you were asking me awhile ago, my 
daughter ?” 

“ I thought, mamma, I heard papa telling you this morning, or 
yesterday, that he had lost that lawsuit.” 

“ You heard right, Ellen, — he has lost it,” said Mrs. Montgomery, 
sadly. 

“ Are you sorry, mamma ? — does it trouble you ?” 

“ You know, my dear, that I am not apt to concern myself over- 
much about the gain or the loss of money. I believe my Heavenly 
Father will give me what is good for me.” 

“ Then, mamma, why are you troubled ?” 

“ Because, my child, I cannot carry out this principle in other 
matters, and leave quietly my all in His hands.” 

“ W'hat is the matter, dear mother ? What makes you look 
so ?” 

“ This lawsuit, Ellen, has brought upon us more trouble than I'Y 
ever thought a lawsuit could, — the loss of it, I mean.” 

“ How, mamma?” 

“ It has caused an entire change of all our plans. Your father 
says he is too poor now to stay here any longer ; and he has agreed 
to go soon on some government or military business to Europe.” 

“ Well, mamma, that is bad ; but he has been away a great deal 
before, and I am sure we were always very happy.” 

“ But, Ellen, he thinks now, and the doctor thinks too, that it is 
very important for my health that I should go with him.” 

“ Does he, mamma ? — and do you mean to go ?” 

“I am afraid I must, my dear child.” 

“ Not, and leave me, mother?” 

The imploring>look of mingled astonishment, terror, and sorrow 
with which Ellen uttered these words, took from her mother all 
power of replying. It was not necessary ; her little daughter 
understood only too well the silent answer of her eye. With a wild 
cry she flung her arms round her mother, and hiding her face in 
her lap, gave way to a violent burst of grief that seemed for a few 
moments as if it would rend soul and body in twain. For her pas- 
sions were by nature very strong, and by education very imperfectly 
controlled; and time, “that rider that breaks youth,” had not as 
yet tried his hand upon her. And Mrs. Montgomery, in spite of 
the f^titude and calmness to which she had steeled herself, bent 
ver her, and folding her arms about her, yielded to sorrow 
still, and for a little while scarcely less violent in its expres- 
n Ellen’s own. 


12 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 


Alas ! she had too good reason. She knew that the chance of 
her ever returning to shield the little creature who was nearest her 
heart from the future evils and snares of life was very, very small. 
She had at first absolutely refused to leave Ellen, when her husband 
proposed it : declaring that she would rather stay with her and die 
than take the chance of recovery at such a cost. But her physician 
assured her she could not live long without a change of climate ; 
Captain Montgomery urged that it was better to submit to a tem- 
porary separation, than to cling obstinately to her child for a few 
months and then leave her for ever ; said he must himself go 
speedily to France, and that now was her best opportunity ; assur- 
ing her, however, that his circumstances would not permit him to 
take Ellen along, but that she would be secure of a happy home 
with his sister during her mother’s absence ; and to the pressure of 
argument Captain Montgomery added the weight of authority, 
insisting on her compliance. Conscience also asked Mrs. Mont- 
gomery whether she had a right to neglect any chance of life that 
was offered her ; and at last she yielded to the combined influence 
of motives no one of which would have had power sufficient to 
move her, and, though with a secret consciousness it would be in 
vain, she consented to do as her friends wished. And it was for 
Ellen’s sake she did it, after all. 

Nothing but necessity had given her the courage to open the 
matter to her little daughter. She had foreseen and endeavored to 
prepare herself for Ellen’s anguish ; but nature was too strong for 
her, and they clasped each other in a convulsive embrace, while 
tears fell like rain. 

It was some minutes before Mrs. Montgomery recollected herself, 
and then, though she struggled hard, she could not immediately re- 
gain her composure. But Ellen’s deep sobs at length fairly alarmed 
her; she saw the necessity, for both their sakes, of putting a stop 
to this state of violent excitement ; self-command was restored at 
once. 

. “ Ellen ! Ellen ! listen to me,” she said ; “ my child, this is not 
right. Remember, my darling, who it is that brings this sorrow 
upon us ; though we must sorrow, we must not rebel.” 

Ellen sobbed more gently ; but that and the mute pressure of 
her arms was her only answer. 

“ You will hurt both yourself and me, my daughter, if you can- 
not command yourself. Remember, dear Ellen, God sends no 
trouble upon his children but in love ; and though we cannot see 
how, he will no doubt make all this work for our good.” 

“ 1 know i^ dear mother,” sobbed Ellen, “ but it’s just as hc-d !” 

Mrs. Montgomery’s own heart answered so readily to the 
of Ellen’s words that for the moment she could not speak. 

“ Tr y> my daughter,” she said, after a pause,— “ try to c 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 


13 


yourself. I am afraid you will make me worse, Ellen, if you can- 
not, — I am, indeed.” 

Ellen had plenty of faults, but amidst them all love to her mother 
was the strongest feeling her heart knew. It had power enough 
now to move her as nothing else could have done ; and exerting all 
her self-command, of which she had sometimes a good deal, she 
did calm herself ; ceased sobbing ; wiped her eyes ; arose from her 
crouching posture, and seating herself on the sofa by her mother, 
and laying her head on her bosom, she listened quietly to all the 
soothing words and cheering considerations with which Mrs. Mont- 
gomery endeavoured to lead her to take a more hopeful view of the 
subject. All she could urge, however, had but very partial success, 
though the conversation was prolonged far into the evening. Ellen 
said little, and did not weep any more ; but in secret her heart 
refused consolation. 

Long before this the servant had brought in the tea-things. 
Nobody regarded it at the time, but the little kettle hissing away 
on the fire now by chance attracted Ellen’s attention, and she 
suddenly recollected her mother had had no tea. To make her 
mother’s tea was Ellen’s regular business. She treated it as a very 
grave affair, and loved it as one of the pleasantest in the course of 
the day. She used in the first place to make sure that the kettle 
really boiled ; then she carefully poured some water into the tea- 
pot and rinsed it, both to make it clean and to make it hot ; then 
she knew exactly how much tea to put into the tiny little tea-pot, 
which was just big enough to hold two cups of tea, and having 
poured a very little boiling water to it, she used to set it by the side 
of the fire while she made half a slice of toast. How careful 
Ellen was about that toast ! The bread must not be cut too thick, 
nor too thin ; the fire must, if possible, burn clear and bright, and 
she herself held the bread on a fork, just at the right distance from 
the coals to get nicely browned without burning. When this was 
done to her satisfaction (and if the first piece failed she would take 
another), she filled up the little tea-pot from the boiling kettle, and 
proceeded to make a cup of tea. She knew, and was very careful 
to put in, just the quantity of milk and sugar that her mother liked ; 
and then she used to carry the tea and toast on a little tray to her 
mother’s side, and very often held it there for her while she eat. 
All this Ellen did with the zeal that love gives, and though the 
same thing was to be gone over every night of the year, she was 
never wearied. It was a real pleasure ;• she had the greatest satis- 
faction in seeing that the little her mother could eat was prepared 
r in the nicest possible manner ; she knew her hands made it 
letter ; her mother often said so. 

this evening other thoughts had driven this important busi- 
kite out of poor Ellen’s mind. Now, however, when her eyes 
2 


14 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD . 


fell upon the little kettle, she recollected her mother had not had her 
tea, and must want it very much ; and silently slipping off the sofa, 
she set about getting it as usual. There was no doubt this time 
whether the kettle boiled or no ; it had been hissing for an hour and 
more, calling as loud as it could to somebody to come and make the 
tea. So Ellen made it, and then began the toast. But she began 
to think, too, as she watched it, how few more times she would be 
able to do so, — how soon her pleasant tea-makings would be over, — 
and the desolate feeling of separation began to come upon her before 
the time. These thoughts were too much for poor Ellen ; the thick 
tears gathered so fast she could not see what she was doing ; and 
she had no more than just turned the slice of bread on the fork 
when the sickness of heart quite overcame her ; she could not go 
on. Toast and fork and all dropped from her hand into the ashes ; 
and rushing to her mother’s side, who was now lying down again, 
and throwing herself upon her, she burst into another fit of sorrow ; 
not so violent as the former, but with a touch of hopelessness in it 
which went yet more to her mother’s heart. Passion in the first 
said, u I cannot;” despair now seemed to say, “ I must.” 

But Mrs. Montgomery was too exhausted to either share or soothe 
Ellen’s agitation. She lay in suffering silence ; till after some time 
she said, faintly, “ Ellen, my love, I cannot bear this much longer.” 

Ellen was immediately brought to herself by these words. She 
arose, sorry and ashamed that she should have given occasion for 
them ; and tenderly kissing her mother, assured her most sincerely 
and resolutely that she would not do so again. In a few minutes 
she was calm enough to finish making the tea, and having toasted 
another piece of bread, she brought it to her mother. Mrs. Mont- 
gomery swallowed a cup of tea, but no toast could be eaten that 
night. 

Both remained silent and quiet awhile after this, till the clock 
struck ten. “ You had better go to bed, my daughter,” said Mrs. 
Montgomery. 

“ I will, mamma.” 

“ Bo you think you can read me a little before you go ?” 

“ Yes, indeed, mamma and Ellen brought the book. “ Where 
shall I read?” 

“ The twenty-third psalm.” 

Ellen began it, and went through it steadily and slowly, though 
her voice quavered a little. 

“ ‘ The Lord is my Shepherd ; I shall not want. 

“ ‘ He maketh me to lie down in green pastures : He leadeth me 
beside the still waters. 

“ ‘ He restoreth my soul : He leadeth me in the paths of rig! 
eousness for his name’s sake. 

“ ‘ Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD . 15 

death, I will fear no evil : for Thou art with me; thy rod and thy 
staff they comfort me. 

“ 1 Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine 
enemies : Thou anointest my head with oil ; my cup runneth over. 

“ ‘ Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my 
life : and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’ ” 

Long before she had finished, Ellen’s eyes were full, and her heart 
too. “ If I only could feel these words as mamma does !” she said 
to herself. She did not dare look up till the traces of tears had 
passed away ; then she saw that her mother was asleep. Those first 
sweet words had fallen like balm upon the sore heart ; and mind 
and body had instantly found rest together. 

Ellen breathed the lightest possible kiss upon her forehead, and 
stole quietly out of the room to her own little bed. 


CHAPTER II. 

Not all the whispers that the soft winds utter 
Speak earthly things — 

There mingleth there, sometimes, a gentle flutter 
Of angel’s wings. 

Amy Lathrop. 

Sorrow and excitement made Ellen’s eyelids heavy, and she slept 
late on the following morning. The great dressing-bell waked her. 
She started up with a confused notion that something was the 
matter ; there was a weight on her heart that was very strange to 
it. A moment was enough to bring it all back ; and she threw 
herself again on her pillow, yielding helplessly to the grief she had 
twice been obliged to control the evening before. Yet love was 
stronger than grief still, and she was careful to allow no sound to 
escape her that could reach the ears of her mother, who slept in the 
next room. Her resolve was firm to grieve her no more with useless 
expressions of sorrow ; to keep it to herself as much as possible. 
But this very thought that she must keep it to herself gave an 
edge to poor Ellen’s grief, and the convulsive clasp of her little arms 
round the pillow plainly showed that it needed none. 

The breakfast-bell again startled her, and she remembered she 
must not be too late down-stairs, or her mother might inquire and 
find out the reason. “ I will not trouble mother — I will not — I will 
not,” she resolved to herself as she got out of bed, though the 
t^o' faster as she said so. Dressing was sad work to Ellen to- 
• jit went on very heavily. Tears dropped into the water as she 
stoOY'd ber bead tbe basin ; and she hid her face in the towel 
c), instead of making the ordinary use of it. But the usual 


16 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 


duties were dragged through at last, and she went to the window. 
“I’ll not go down till papa is gone,” she thought} “he’ll ask me 
what is the matter with my eyes.” 

Ellen opened the window. The rain was over ; the lovely light 
of a fair September morning was beautifying everything it shone 
upon. Ellen had been accustomed to amuse herself a good deal at 
this window, though nothing was to be seen from it but an ugly 
city prospect of back walls of houses, with the yards belonging to 
them, and a bit of narrow street. But she had watched the people 
that showed themselves at the windows, and the children that played 
in the yards, and the women that went to the pumps, till she had 
become pretty well acquainted with the neighborhood ; and though 
they were for the most part dingy, dirty, and disagreeable, — women, 
children, houses, and all, — she certainly had taken a good deal of 
interest in their proceedings. It was all gone now. She could not 
bear to look at them ; she felt as if it made her sick ; and turning 
away her eyes, she lifted them to the bright sky above her head, 
and gazed into its clear depth of blue till she almost forgot that 
there was such a thing as a city in the world. Little white clouds were 
chasing across it, driven by the fresh wind that was blowing away 
Ellen’s hair from her face, and cooling her hot cheeks. That wind 
could not have been long in coming from the place of woods and 
flowers, it was so sweet still. Ellen looked till, she didn’t know 
why, she felt calmed and soothed, — as if somebody was saying to 
her, softly, “ Cheer up, my child, cheer up ; things are not as bad as 
they might be ; things will be better.” Her attention was attracted 
at length by voices below ; she looked down, and saw there, in one 
of the yards, a poor deformed child, whom she had often noticed 
before, and always with sorrowful interest. Besides his bodily in- 
firmity, he had a further claim on her sympathy, in having lost his 
mother within a few months. Ellen’s heart was easily touched this 
morning ; she felt for him very much. “ Poor, poor little fellow !” 
she thought ; “ he’s a great deal worse off than I am. His mother 
is dead ; mine is only going away for a few months — not forever ; 
oh, what a difference ! and then the joy of coming back again !” 
poor Ellen was weeping already at the thought — “ and I will do, oh, 
how much ! while she is gone — I’ll do more than she can possibly 
expect from me — I’ll astonish her — I’ll delight her — I’ll work 
harder than ever I did in my life before, I’ll mend all my faults, 
and give her so much pleasure ! But oh ! if she only needn’t go 
away ! Oh, mamma !” Tears of mingled sweet and bitter were 
poured out fast, but the bitter had the largest share. 

The breakfast-table was still standing, and her father gone' ^hen 
Ellen went down-stairs. Mrs. Montgomery welcomed her wi 
usual quiet smile, and held out her hand. Ellen tried to sr 
answer, but she was glad to hide her face in her mother’s b 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD . 


17 


and the long, close embrace was too close and too long : it told of 
sorrow as well as love ; and tears fell from the eyes of each that the 
other did not see. 

“ Need I go to school to-day, mamma ?” whispered Ellen. 

“ No ; I spoke to your father about that ; you shall not go any 
more ; we will be together now while we can.” 

Ellen wanted to ask how long that would be, but could not make 
up her mind to it. 

“ Sit down, daughter, and take some breakfast.” 

“ Have you done, mamma?” 

“ No ; I waited for you.” 

“ Thank you, dear mamma,” with another embrace ; “ how good 
you are ; but I don’t think I want any.” 

They drew their chairs to the table, but it was plain neither had 
much heart to eat ; although Mrs. Montgomery with her own hands 
laid on Ellen’s plate half of the little bird that had been broiled for 
her own breakfast. The half was too much for each of them. 

“ What made you so late this morning, daughter ?” 

“ I got up late in the first place, mamma ; and then I was a long 
time at the window.” 

“ At the window ! were you examining into your neighbor’s 
affairs as usual ?” said Mrs* Mongomery, surprised that it should 
have been so. 

“ Oh, no, mamma, I didn’t look at them at all, — excepttpoor little 
Billy, — I was looking at the sky.” 

“ And what did you see there that pleased you so much ?” 

“ I don’t know, mamma ; it looked so lovely and peaceful — that 
pure blue spread over my head, and the little white clouds flying 
across it — I loved to looked at it ; it seemed to do me good.” 

“ Could you look at it, Ellen, without thinking of Him who made 
it?” 

u No, mamma,” said Ellen, ceasing her breakfast, and now speak- 
ing with difficulty ; “ I did think of Him ; perhaps that was the 
reason.” 

“ And what did you think of Him, daughter?” 

“ I hoped, mamma — I felt — I thought— -He would take care of 
me,” said Ellen, bursting into tears, and throwing her arms again 
round her mother. 

“ He will, my dear daughter, He will, if you will only put your 
trust in Him, Ellen.” 

Ellen struggled hard to get back her composure, and after a few 
minutes succeeded. 

“ Mamma, will you tell me what you mean exactly by my ‘ putting 
my trust’ in Him ?” 

“ Don’t you trust me, Ellen ?” 

“ Certainly, mamma.” 
b 


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THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 


“ How do you trust me? — in what?” 

“ Why, mamma, — in the first place I trust every word you say — 
entirely — I know nothing could be truer ; if you were to tell me 
black is white, mamma, I should think my eyes had been mistaken. 
Then everything you tell or advise me to do, I know it is right, 
perfectly. And I always feel safe when you are near me, because 
I know you’ll take care of me. And I am glad to think I belong 
to you, and you have the management of me entirely, and I needn’t 
manage myself, because I know I can’t ; and if I could, I’d rather 
you would, mamma.” 

“ My daughter, it is just so ; it is just so : that I wish you to 
trust in God. He is truer, wiser, stronger, kinder, by far, than I 
am, even if I could always be with you ; and what will you do 
when I am away from you ? — and what would you do, my child, if 
I were to be parted from you forever?” 

“ Oh, mamma !” said Ellen, bursting into tears, and clasping her 
arms round her mother again, — “ Oh, dear mamma, don’t talk about 
it!” 

Her mother fondly returned her caress, and one or two tears fell 
on Ellen’s head as she did so, but that was all, and she said no 
more. Feeling severely the effects of the excitement and anxiety 
of the preceding day and night, she now stretched herself on the 
sofa and lay quite still. Ellen placed herself on a little bench at her 
side, with her back to the head of the sofa, that her mother might 
not see her face ; and possessing herself of one of her hands, sat 
with her little head resting upon her mother, as quietias she. They 
remained thus for two or three hours, without speaking ; and Mrs. 
Montgomery was part of the time slumbering ; but now and then 
a tear ran down the side of the sofa and dropped on the carpet where 
Ellen sat ; and now and then her lips were softly pressed to the 
hand she held, as if they would grow there. 

The doctor’s entrance at last disturbed them. Doctor Green 
found his patient decidedly worse than he had reason to expect ; 
and his sagacious eye had not passed back and forth many times 
between the mother and daughter before he saw how it was. He 
made no remark upon it, however, but continued for some moments 
a pleasant chatty conversation which he had begun with Mrs. 
Montgomery. He then called Ellen to him ; he had rather taken 
a fancy to her. 

“ Well, Miss Ellen,” he said, rubbing one of her hands in his ; 
“ what do you think of this fine scheme of mine ?” 

“ What scheme, sir ?” 

“ Why, this scheme of sending this sick lady over the water to 
get well ; what do you think of it eh?” 

“ Will it make her quite well, do you think, sir Y” asked Ellen, 
earnestly. 


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19 


“ ‘ Will it make her well !’ to be sure it will ; do you think I 
don’t know better than to send people all the way across the ocean 
for nothing ? Who do you think would want Dr. Green, if he sent 
people on wild-goose chases in that fashion ?” 

“Will she have to stay long there before she is cured, sir?” 
asked Ellen. 

“ Oh, that I can’t tell ; that depends entirely on circumstances, — 
perhaps longer, perhaps shorter. But now, Miss Ellen, I’ve got a 
word of business to say to you ; you know you agreed to be my 
little nurse. Mrs. Nurse, this lady whom I put under your care 
the other day isn’t quite as well as she ought to be this morning ; 
I’m afraid you haven’t taken proper care of her ; she looks to me as 
if she had been too much excited. I’ve a notion she has been 
secretly taking half a bottle of wine, or reading some furious kind 
of a novel, or something of that sort, you understand? Now mind, 
Mrs. Nurse,” said the doctor, changing his tone, “she must not be 
excited, — you must take care that she is not, — it isn’t good for her. 
You mustn’t let her talk much, or laugh much, or cry at all, on 
any account ; she mustn’t be worried in the least, — will you re- 
member? Now you know what I shall expect of you; you must 
be very careful — if that piece of toast of yours should chance to 
get burned, one of these fine evenings, I won’t answer for the con- 
sequences. Good-by,” said he, shaking Ellen’s hand, — “ you needn’t 
look sober about it ; all you have to do is to let your mamma be as 
much like an oyster as possible ; you understand ? Good-by.” 
And Dr. Green took his leave. 

“ Poor woman !” said the doctor to himself as he went down- 
stairs (he was a humane man). “ I wonder if she’ll live till she 
gets to the other side ! That’s a nice little girl, too. Poor child ! 
poor child !” 

Both mother and daughter silently acknowledged the justice of 
the doctor’s advice and determined to follow it. By common con- 
sent, as it seemed, each for several days avoided bringing the 
subject of sorrow to the other’s mind ; though no doubt it was 
constantly present to both. It was not spoken of ; indeed, little of 
any kind was spoken of, but that never. Mrs. Montgomery was 
doubtless employed during this interval in preparing for what she 
believed was before her ; endeavouring to resign herself and her 
child to Him in whose hands they were, and struggling to with- 
draw her affections from a world which she had a secret misgiving 
she was fast leaving. As for Ellen, the doctor’s warning had served 
to strengthen the resolve she had already made, that she would not 
distress her mother with the sight of her sorrow ; and she kept it, 
as far as she could. She did not let her mother see but very few 
tears, and those were quiet ones ; though she dropped her head like 
a withered flower, and went about the house with an air of sub- 


20 


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missive sadness that tried her mother sorely. But when she was 
alone, and knew no one could see, sorrow had its way ; and then 
there were sometimes agonies of grief that would almost have 
broken Mrs. Montgomery’s resolution, had she known them. 

This, however, could not last. Ellen was a child, and of most 
buoyant and elastic spirit naturally ; it was not for one sorrow, 
however great, to utterly crush her. It would have taken years to 
do that. Moreover, she entertained not the slightest hope of being 
able by any means to alter her father’s will. She regarded the 
dreaded evil as an inevitable thing. But though she was at first 
overwhelmed with sorrow, and for some days evidently pined under 
it sadly, hope at length would come back to her little heart ; and 
no sooner in again, hope began to smooth the roughest, and soften 
the hardest, and touch the dark spots with light, in Ellen’s future. 
The thoughts which had just passed through her head that first 
morning as she stood at her window, now came back again. Thoughts 
of wonderful improvement to be made during her mother’s absence ; 
of unheard-of efforts to learn and amend, which should all be 
crowned with success ; and, above all, thoughts of that “ coming 
home,” when all these attainments and accomplishments should be 
displayed to her mother’s delighted eyes, and her exertions receive 
their long-desired reward; they made Ellen’s heart' beat, and her 
eyes swim, and even brought a smile once more upon her lips. Mrs. 
Montgomery was rejoiced to see the change; she felt that as much 
time had already been given to sorrow as they could afford to lose, 
and she had not known exactly how to proceed. Ellen’s amended 
looks and spirits greatly relieved her. 

“ What are you thinking about, Ellen ?” said she, one morning. 

Ellen was sewing, and while busy at her work her mother had 
two or three times observed a light smile pass over her face. Ellen 
looked up, still smiling, and answered, “ Oh, mamma, I was think- 
ing of different things, — things that I mean to do while you are 
gone.” 

“ And what are these things?” inquired her mother. 

“ Oh, mamma, it wouldn’t do to tell you beforehand ; I want to 
surprise you with them when you come back.” 

A slight shudder passed over Mrs. Montgomery’s frame, hut Ellen 
did not see it. Mrs. Montgomery was silent. Ellen presently in- 
troduced another subject. 

“ Mamma, what kind of a person is my aunt ?” 

“ I do not know ; I have never seen her.” 

“ How has that happened, mamma?” 

“ Your aunt has always lived in a remote country town, and I 
have been very much confined to two or three cities, and your father’s 
long and repeated absences made travelling impossible to me.” 

Ellen thought, but she didn’t say it, that it was very odd her 


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21 


father should not sometimes, when he was in the country, have 
gone to see his relations, and taken her mother with him. 

“ What is my aunt’s name, mamma?” 

“ I think you must have heard that already, Ellen ; Fortune 
Emerson.” 

“ Emerson ! I thought she was papa’s sister !” 

“ So she is.” 

“ Then how comes her name not to be Montgomery ?” 

“ She is only his half-sister ; the daughter of his mother, not the 
daughter of his father.” 

“ I am very sorry for that,” said Ellen, gravely. 

“ Why, my daughter?” 

“ I am afraid she will not be so likely to love me.” 

“ You mustn’t think so, my child. Her loving or not loving you 
will depend solely and entirely upon yourself, Ellen. Don’t forget 
that. If you are a good child, and make it your daily care to do 
your duty, she cannot help liking you, be she what she may ; and 
on the other hand, if she have all the will in the world to love you, 
she cannot do it unless you will let her, — it all depends on your 
behaviour.” 

“ Oh, mamma, I can’t help wishing dear aunt Bessy was alive, and 
I was going to her.” 

Many a time the same wish had passed through Mrs. Mont- 
gomery’s mind ! But she kept down her rising heart, and went on 
calmly. 

“ You must not expect, my child, to find anybody as indulgent as 
I am, or as ready to overlook and excuse your faults. It would be 
unreasonable to look for it; and you must not think hardly of your 
aunt when you find she is not your mother ; but then it will be 
your own fault if she does not love you, in time, truly and tenderly. 
See that you render her all the respect and obedience you could 
render me ; that is your bounden duty ; she will stand in my place 
while she has the care of you, — remember that, Ellen ; and remem- 
ber, too, that she will deserve more gratitude at your hands for 
showing you kindness than I do, because she cannot have the 
same feeling of love to make trouble easy.” 

“ Oh, no, mamma,” said Ellen, “ I don’t think so ; it’s that very 
feeling of love that I am grateful for. I don’t care a fig for any- 
thing people do for me without that.” 

“ But you can make her love you, Ellen, if you try.” 

“Well, I’ll try, mamma.” 

“ And don’t be discouraged. Perhaps you may be disappointed 
in first appearances, but never mind that ; have patience ; and let 
your motto be (if there’s any occasion), overcome evil with good. 
Will you put that among the things you mean to do while I am 
gone?” said Mrs. Montgomery, with a smile. 


22 


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“ I’ll try, dear mamma.” 

“ You will succeed if you try, dear, never fear ; if you apply 
yourself in your trying to the old unfailing source of wisdom and 
strength ; to Him without whom you can do nothing.” 

There was silence for a little. 

“ What sort of a place is it where my aunt lives?” asked Ellen. 

“ Your father says it is a very pleasant place ; he says the 
country is beautiful, and very healthy, and full of charming walks 
and rides. You have never lived in the country ; I think you will 
enjoy it very much.” 

“ Then it is not in a town ?” said Ellen. 

“ No ; it is not a great way from the town of Thirlwall, but your 
aunt lives in the open country. Your father says she is a capital 
housekeeper, and that you will learn more and be in all respects a 
great deal happier and better off than you would be in a boarding- 
school here or anywhere.” 

Ellen’s heart secretly questioned the truth of this last assertion 
very much. 

“ Is there any school near ?” she asked. 

“ Your father says there was an excellent one in Thirlwall when 
he was there.” 

“ Mamma,” said Ellen, “ I think the greatest pleasure I shall 
have while you are gone will be writing to you. I have been think- 
ing of it a good deal. I mean to tell you everything, — absolutely 
everything, mamma. You know there will be nobody for me to 
talk to as I do to you ;” Ellen’s word’s came out with difficulty ; 
“and when I feel badly, I shall just shut myself up and write to 
you.” She hid her face in her mother’s lap. 

“ I count upon it, my dear daughter ; it will make quite as much 
the pleasure of my life, Ellen, as of yours.” 

“ But then, mother,” said Ellen, brushing away the tears from 
her eyes, “ it will be so long before my letters can get to you ! The 
things I want you to know right away you won’t know perhaps in 
a month.” 

“That’s no matter, daughter; they will just be as good when 
they do get to me. Never think of that ; write every day, and all 
manner of things that concern you, — just as particularly as if you 
were speaking to me.” 

“ And you’ll write to me too, mamma ?” 

“ Indeed I will, when I can. But, Ellen, you say that when I am 
away and cannot hear you, there will be nobody to supply my place. 
Perhaps it will be so, indeed ; but then, my daughter, let it make you 
seek that friend who is never far away, nor out of hearing. Draw 
nigh to God, and he will draw nigh to you. You know he has said 
of his children : ‘ Before they call, I will answer ; and while they 
are yet speaking, I will hear.’ ” 


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23 



“ But, mamma,” said Ellen, her eyes filling instantly, “ you 
know he is not my friend in the same way that he is yours.” And 
hiding her face again, she added, “ Oh, I wish he was !” 

“ You know the way to make him so, Ellen. * He is willing, it 
only rests with you. Oh, my child, my child ! if losing your 
mother might be the means of finding you that better friend, I 
should be quite willing — and glad to go — forever.” 

There was silence, only broken by Ellen’s sobs. Mrs. Mont- 
gomery’s voice had trembled, and her face was now covered with 
her hands ; but she was not weeping ; she was seeking a better 
relief where it had long been her habit to seek and find it. Both 
resumed their usual composure, and the employments which had 
been broken off, but neither chose to renew the conversation. Din- 
ner, sleeping, and company prevented their having another oppor- 
tunity during the rest of the day. 

But when evening came, they were again left to themselves. 
Captain Montgomery was away, which indeed was the case most 
of the time ; friends had taken their departure ; the curtains were 
down, the lamp lit, the little room looked cosey and comfortable ; 
the servant 
had brought 
the tea-things, 
and withdrawn, 
and the mother 
and daughter 
were happily 
alone. Mrs. 

Montgomery 
knew that such 
occasions were 
numbered, and 
fast drawing to 
an end, and she 
felt each one to 
be very pre- 
cious. She 
now lay on 
her couch, 
with her face 
partially 
shaded, and her 
eyes fixed upon 
her little daugh- 
ter, who was 

now preparing the tea. She watched her, with thoughts and feel- 
ings not to be spoken, as the little figure went back and forward 


24 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 


between the table and the fire ; and the light, shining full upon her 
busy face, showed that Ellen’s whole soul was in her beloved duty. 
Tears would fall as she looked, and were not wiped away ; but 
when Ellen, havfng finished her work, brought with a satisfied face 
the little tray of tea and toast to her mother, there was no longer 
any sign of them left ; Mrs. Montgomery arose with her usual kind 
smile, to show her gratitude by honoring as far as possible what 
Ellen had provided.” 

“ You have more appetite to-night, mamma.” 

u I am very glad, daughter,” replied her mother, “ to see that 
you have made up your mind to bear patiently this evil that has 
come upon us. I am glad for your sake, and I am glad for mine ; 
and I am glad too because we have a great deal to do and no time 
to lose in doing it.” 

“ What have we so much to do, mamma ?” said Ellen. 

“ Oh, many things,” said her mother ; “ you will see. But now, 
Ellen, if there is anything you wish to talk to me about, any ques- 
tion you want to ask, anything you would like particularly to have, 
or to have done for you, I want you to tell it me as soon as possi- 
ble, now while we can attend to it, for by and by perhaps we shall 
be hurried.” 

“ Mamma,” said Ellen, with brightening eyes, “ there is one 
thing I have thought of that I should like to have ; shall I tell it 
you now ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Mamma, you know I shall want to be writing a great deal ; 
wouldn’t it be a good thing for me to have a little box with some 
pens in it, and an inkstand, and some paper and wafers ? Because, 
mamma, you know I shall be among strangers, at first, and I shan’t 
feel like asking them for these things as often as I shall want them, 
and maybe they wouldn’t want to let me have them if I did.” 

“ I have thought of that already, daughter,” said Mrs. Mont- 
gomery, with a smile and a sigh. “ I will certainly take care that 
you are well provided in that respect before you go.” 

“ How am I to go, mamma?” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ I mean , who will go with me? You know I can’t go alone 
mamma.” 

“ No, my daughter, I’ll not send you alone. But your father 
says it is impossible for him to take the journey at present, and it is 
yet more impossible for me. There is no help for it, daughter, but 
we must intrust you to the care of some friend going that way ; 
but He that holds the winds and waters in the hollow of his hand 
can take care of you without any of our help, and it is to his keep- 
ing, above all, that I shall commit you.” 

Ellen made no remark, and seemed much less surprised and 


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25 


troubled than her mother had expected. In truth, the greater evil 
swallowed up the less. Parting from her mother, and for so long a 
time, it seemed to her comparatively a matter of little importance 
with whom she went, or how, or where. Except for this, the taking 
a long journey under a stranger’s care would have been a dreadful 
thing to her. 

“ Do you know yet who it will be that I shall go with, mamma ?” 

“ Not yet ; but it will be necessary to take the first good oppor- 
tunity, for I cannot go till I have seen you off ; and it is thought 
very desirable that I should get to sea before the severe weather 
comes.” 

It was with a pang that these words were spoken, and heard, but 
neither showed it to the other. 

“ It has comforted me greatly, my dear child, that you have 
shown yourself so submissive and patient under this affliction. I 
should scarcely have been able to endure it if you had not exerted 
self-control. You have behaved beautifully.” 

This was almost too much for poor Ellen. It required her 
utmost stretch of self-control to keep within any bounds of com- 
posure ; and for some moments her flushed cheek, quivering lip, 
and heaving bosom told what a tumult her mother’s words had 
raised. Mrs. Montgomery saw she had gone too far, and, willing 
to give both Ellen and herself time to recover, she laid her head 
on the pillow again and closed her eyes. Many thoughts coming 
thick upon one another presently filled her mind, and half an hour 
had passed before she again recollected what she had meant to say. 
She opened her eyes ; Ellen was sitting at a little distance, staring 
into the fire, evidently as deep in meditation as her mother had 
been. 

u Ellen,” said Mrs. Montgomery, “ did you ever fancy what kind 
of a Bible you would like to have ?” 

“ A Bible, mamma !” said Ellen, with sparkling eyes ; “ do you 
mean to give me a Bible?” 

Mrs. Montgomery smiled. 

“ But, mamma,” said Ellen, gently, “ I thought you couldn’t afford 
it?” 

“ I have said so, and truly,” answered her mother ; “ and hitherto 
you have been able to use mine, but I will not leave you now with- 
out one. I will find ways and means,” said Mrs. Montgomery, 
smiling again. 

“ Oh, mamma, thank you !” said Ellen, delighted ; “ how glad I shall 
be !” And after a pause of consideration, she added, “ Mamma, 
I never thought much about what sort of a one I should like ; 
couldn’t I tell better if I were to see the different kinds in the 
store ?” 

“ Perhaps so. Well, the first day that the weather is fine enough 
B 3 


26 THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD. 

and I am well enough, I will go out with you and we will see about 
it.” 

“ I am afraid Dr. Green won’t let you, mamma.” 

“ I shall not ask him. I want to get you a Bible, and some other 
things that I will not leave you without, and nobody can do it but 
myself. I shall go, if I possibly can.” 

“ What other things, mamma ?” asked Ellen, very much interested 
in the subject. 

“ I don’t think it will do to tell you to-night,” said Mrs. Mont- 
gomery, smiling. “ I foresee that you and I should be kept awake 
quite too late if we were to enter upon it just now. We will leave 
it till to-morrow. Now read to me, love, and then to bed.” 

Ellen obeyed ; and went to sleep with brighter visions dancing 
before her eyes than had been the case for some time. 


CHAPTER III. 

Sweetheart, we shall be rich ere we depart, 

If fairings come thus plentifully in. — Shakespeare. 

Ellen had to wait some time for the desired fine day. The 
equinoctial storms would have their way as usual, and Ellen thought 
they were longer than ever this year. But after many stormy days 
had tried her patience, there was at length a sudden change, both 
without and within doors. The clouds had done their work for 
that^time, and fled away before a strong northerly wind, leaving 
the sky bright and fair. And Mrs. Montgomery’s deceitful disease 
took a turn, and for a little space raised the hopes of her friends. 
All were rejoicing but two persons ; Mrs. Montgomery was not 
deceived, neither was the doctor. The shopping project was kept a 
profound secret from him and from everybody except Ellen. 

Ellen watched now for a favourable day. Every morning as soon 
as she rose she went to the window to see what was the look 
of the weather ; and about' a week after the change above noticed, 
she was greatly pleased one morning, on opening her window as 
usual, to find the air and sky promising all that could be desired. 
It was one of those beautiful days in the end of September, that 
sometimes herald October before it arrives, — cloudless, brilliant, 
and breathing balm. “ This will do,” said Ellen to herself, in great 
satisfaction. “ I think this will do ; I hope mamma will think so.” 

Hastily dressing herself, and a good deal excited already, sne ran 
down-stairs; and after the morning salutations, examined her 
mother’s looks with as much anxiety as she had just done those of 
the weather. All was satisfactory there also, and Ellen ate her 
breakfast with an excellent appetite ; but she said not a word of the 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 


27 


intended expedition till her father should be gone. She contented 
herself with strengthening her hopes by making constant fresh in- 
spections of the weather and her mother’s countenance alternately ; 
and her eyes, returning from the window on one of these excursions 
and meeting her mother’s face, saw a smile there which said all she 
wanted. Breakfast went on more vigorously than ever. But after 
breakfast it seemed to Ellen that her father never would go away. 
He took the newspaper, an uncommon thing for him, and pored 
over it most perseveringly, while Ellen was in a perfect fidget of 
impatience. Her mother, seeing the state she was in, and taking 
pity on her, sent her up-stairs to do some little matters of business 
in her own room. These Ellen despatched with all possible zeal 
and speed ; and coming down again found her father gone and her 
mother alone. She flew to kiss her in the first place, and then make 
the inquiry, “ Don’t you think to-day will do, mamma ?” 

“ As fine as possible, daughter ; we could not have a better ; but 
I must wait till the doctor has been here.” 

“ Mamma,” said Ellen, after a pause, making a great effort of 
self-denial, “ I am afraid you oughtn’t to go out to get these things 
for me. Pray don’t, mamma, if you think it will do you harm. I 
would rather go without them ; indeed I would.” 

“ Never mind that, daughter,” said Mrs. Montgomery, kissing 
her. “I am bent upon it ; it would be quite as much of a disap- 
pointment to me as to you not to go. We have a lovely day for it, 
and we will take our time and walk slowly, and we haven’t far to 
go, either. But I must let Dr. Green make his visit first.” 

To fill up the time till he came, Mrs. Montgomery employed Ellen 
in reading to her as usual. And this morning’s reading Ellen long 
after remembered. Her mother directed her to several passages in 
different parts of the Bible that speak of heaven and its enjoyments ; 
and though, when she began, her own little heart was full of ex- 
citement, in view of the day’s plans, and beating with hope and 
pleasure, the sublime beauty of the words and thoughts, as she 
went on, awed her into quiet, and her mother’s manner at length 
turned her attention entirely from herself. Mrs. Montgomery was 
lying on the sofa, and for the most part listened in silence, with 
her eyes closed, but sometimes saying a word or two that made 
Ellen feel how deep was the interest her mother had in the things 
she read of, and how pure and strong the pleasure she was even now 
taking in them ; and sometimes there was a smile on her face that 
Ellen scarce liked to see ; it gave her an indistinct feeling that her 
mother would not be long away from that heaven to which she 
seemed already to belong. Ellen had a sad consciousness, too, that 
she had no part with her mother in this matter. She could hardly 
go on. She came to that beautiful passage in the seventh of 
Revelation : 


28 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 


“ And one of the elders answered, saying unto me, What are these 
which are arrayed in white robes ? and whence came they ? And 
I said unto him, Sir, thou knowest. And he said unto me, These 
are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed 
their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. There- 
fore are they before the throne of God, and serve him day and 
night in his temple : and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell 
among them. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more ; 
neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb 
which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead 
them unto living fountains of waters : and God shall wipe away all 
tears from their eyes.” 

With difficulty, and a husky voice, Ellen got through it. Lift- 
ing then her eyes to her mother’s face, she saw again the same 
singular sweet smile. Ellen felt that she could not read another 
word ; to her great relief the door opened, and Dr. Green came in. 
His appearance changed the whole course of her thoughts. All 
that was grave or painful fled quickly away; Ellen’s head was 
immediately full again of what had filled it before she began to 
read. 

As soon as the doctor had retired and was fairly out of hearing, 
“Now, mamma, shall we go?” said Ellen. “You needn’t stir, 
mamma; I’ll bring all your things to you, and put them on ; may 
I, mamma? then you won’t be a bit tired before you set out.” 

Her mother assented ; and with a great deal of tenderness and a 
great deal of eagerness, Ellen put on her stockings and shoes, 
arranged her hair, and did all that she could toward changing her 
dress and putting on her bonnet and shawl ; and greatly delighted 
she was when the business was accomplished. 

“ Now, mamma, you look like yourself; I haven’t seen you look 
so well this great while. I’m so glad you’re going out again,” said 
Ellen, putting her arms round her ; “I do believe it will do you 
good. Now, mamma, I’ll go and get ready; I’ll be very quick 
about it ; you shan’t have to wait long for me.” 

In a few minutes the two set forth from the house. The day 
was as fine as could be ; there was no wind, there was no dust ; the 
sun was not oppressive ; and Mrs. Montgomery did feel refreshed 
and strengthened during the few steps they had to take to their first 
stopping-place. 

It was a jeweller’s store. Ellen had never been in one before in 
her life, and her first feeling on entering was of dazzled wonderment 
at the glittering splendours around ; this was presently forgotten in 
curiosity to know what her mother could possibly want there. She 
soon discovered that she had come to sell and* not to buy. Mrs. 
Montgomery drew a ring from her finger, and after a little chaffer- 
ing parted with it to the owner of the store for eighty dollars, being 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 


29 


about three-quarters of its real value. The money was counted 
out, and she left the store. 

“Mamma,” said Ellen, in a low voice, “wasn’t that grand- 
mamma’s ring, which I thought you loved so much?” 

“ Yes, I did love it, Ellen, but I love you better.” 

“ Oh, mamma, I am very sorry !” said Ellen. 

“ You need not be sorry, daughter. Jewels in themselves are 
the merest nothings to me ; and as for the rest, it doesn’t matter; 
I can remember my mother without any help from a trinket.” 

There were tears, however, in Mrs. Montgomery’s eyes, that 
showed the sacrifice had cost her something ; and there were tears 
in Ellen’s that told it was not thrown away upon her. 

“Iam sorry you should know of this,” continued Mrs. Mont- 
gomery ; “you should not if I could have helped it. But set your 
heart quite at rest, Ellen ; I assure you this use of my ring gives 
me more pleasure on the whole than any other I could have made 
of it.” 

A grateful squeeze of her hand and glance into her face was 
Ellen’s answer. 

Mrs. Montgomery had applied to her husband for the funds 
necessary to fit Ellen comfortably for the time they should be 
absent ; and in answer he had given her a sum barely sufficient for 
her mere clothing. Mrs. Montgomery knew him better than to ask 
for a further supply, but she resolved to have recourse to other 
means to do what she had determined upon. Now that she was 
about to leave her little daughter, and it might be forever, she had 
set her heart upon providing her with certain things which she 
thought important to her comfort and improvement, and which 
Ellen would go very long without if she did not give them to her, 
and now, Ellen had had very few presents in her life, and those 
always of the simplest and cheapest kind ; her mother resolved 
that in the midst of the bitterness of this time she would give her 
one pleasure, if she could ; it might be the last. 

They stopped next at a bookstore. “ Oh, what a delicious smell 
of new books !” said Ellen, as they entered. “ Mamma, if it wasn’t 
for one thing, I should say I never was so happy in my life.” 

Children’s books, lying in tempting confusion near the door, 
immediately fastened Ellen’s eyes and attention. She opened one, 
and was already deep in the interest of it, when the word “ Bibles" 
struck her ear. Mrs. Montgomery was desiring the shopman to 
show her various kinds and sizes that she might choose from among 
them. Down went Ellen’s book, and she flew to the place, where 
a dozen different Bibles were presently displayed. Ellen’s wits 
were ready to forsake her. Such beautiful Bibles she had never 
seen ; she pored in ecstasy over their varieties of type and binding, 
and was very evidently in love with them all. 


30 


THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD . 


“Now, Ellen,” said Mrs. Montgomery, “look and choose ; take 
your time, and see which you like best.” 

It was not likely that Ellen’s “ time” would be a short one. Her 
mother, seeing this, took a chair at a little distance to await patiently 
her decision; and while Ellen’s eyes were riveted on the Bibles, 
her own very naturally were fixed upon her. In the excitement and 
eagerness of the moment, Ellen had thrown off her light bonnet, 
and with flushed cheek and sparkling eye, and a brow grave with 
unusual care, as though a nation’s fate were deciding, she was weigh- 
ing the comparative advantages of large, small, and middle-sized ; 
black, blue, purple, and red ; gilt and not gilt ; clasp and no clasp. 
Everything but the Bibles before her Ellen had forgotten utterly ; 
she was deep in what was to her the most important of business ; 
she did not see the bystanders smile ; she did not know there were 
any. To her mother’s eye it was a most fair sight. Mrs. Mont- 
gomery gazed with rising emotions of pleasure and pain that strug- 
gled for the mastery, but pain at last got the better and rose very 
high. “How can I give thee up!” was the one thought of her 
heart. Unable to command herself, she rose and went to a distant 
part of the counter, where she seemed to be examining books ; but 
tears, some of the bitterest she had ever shed, were falling thick 
upon the dusty floor, and she felt her heart like to break. Her 
little daughter at one end of the counter had forgotten there ever 
was such a thing as sorrow in the world ; and she at the other was 
bowed beneath a weight of it that was nigh to crush her. But in 
her extremity she betook herself to that refuge she had never 
known to fail ; it did not fail her now. She remembered the words 
Ellen had been reading to her but that very morning, and they 
came like the breath of heaven upon the fever of her soul. “ Not 
my will, but thine be done.” She strove and prayed to say it, and 
not in vain ; and after a little while she was able to return to her 
seat. She felt that she had been shaken by a tempest, but she was 
calmer now than before. 

Ellen was just as she had left her, and apparently just as far 
from coming to any conclusion. Mrs. Montgomery was resolved 
to let her take her way. Presently Ellen came over from the 
counter with a large royal octavo Bible, heavy enough to be a good 
lift for her. “ Mamma,” said she, laying it on her mother’s lap 
and opening it, “ what do you think of that? isn’t that splendid ?” 

“ A most beautiful page, indeed ; is this your choice, Ellen ?” 

“Well, mamma, I don’t know; what do you think?” 

“ I think it is rather inconveniently large and heavy for every- 
day use. It is quite a weight upon my lap. I shouldn’t like to 
carry it in my hands long. You would want a little table on pur- 
pose to hold it.” 

“ Well, that wouldn’t do at all,” said Ellen, laughing ; “ I believe 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 


31 


vou are right, mamma; I wonder I didn’t think of it. I might 
have known that myself.” 

She took it back ; and there followed another careful examina- 
tion of the whole stock ; and then Ellen came to her mother with 
a beautiful miniature edition in two volumes, gilt and clasped, and 
very perfect in all respects, but of exceeding small print. 

“ I think I’ll have this, mamma,” said she ; “isn’t it a beauty? 
I could put it in my pocket, you know, and carry it anywhere with 
the greatest ease.” 

“It would have one great objection to me,” said Mrs. Mont- 
gomery, “inasmuch as I cannot possibly see to read it.” 

“ Cannot you, mamma ! But I can read it perfectly.” 

“Well, my dear, take it; that is, if you will make up your 
mind to put on spectacles before your time.” 

“ Spectacles, mamma ! I hope I shall never wear spectacles.” 

“ What do you propose to do when your sight fails, if you shall 
live so long ?” 

“ Well, mamma, — if it comes to that, — but you don’t advise me, 
then, to take this little, beauty?” 

“ Judge for yourself ; I think you are old enough.” 

“ I know what you think, though, mamma, and I dare say you 
are right, too; I won’t take it, though it’s a pity. Well, I must 
look again.” 

Mrs. Montgomery came to her help, for it was plain Ellen had 
lost the power of judging amidst so many tempting objects. But 
she presently simplified the matter by putting aside all that were 
decidedly too large, or too small, or of too fine print. There re- 
mained three, of moderate size and sufficiently large type, but 
different binding. “ Either of these I think will answer your pur- 
pose nicely,” said Mrs. Montgomery. 

“ Then, mamma, if you please, I will have the red one. I like 
that best, because it will put me in mind of yours.” 

Mrs. Montgomery could find no fault with this reason. She paid 
for the red Bible, and directed it to be sent home. “Shan’t I 
carry it, mamma?” said Ellen. 

^ No, you would find it in the way ; we have several things to do 
yet.” 

“ Have we, mamma ? I thought we only came to get a Bible.” 

“ That is enough for one day, I confess ; I am a little afraid your 
head will be turned ; but I must run the risk of it. I dare not 
lose the opportunity of this fine weather ; I may not have such 
another. I wish to have the comfort of thinking, when I am away, 
that I have left you with everything necessary to the keeping up 
of good habits, — everything that will make them pleasant and easy. 
I wish you to be always neat, and tidy, and industrious ; depending 
upon others as little as possible ; and careful to improve yourself by 


32 


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every means, and especially by writing to me. I will leave you no 
excuse, Ellen, for failing in any of these duties. I trust you will 
not disappoint me in a single particular.” 

Ellen’ s heart was too full to speak ; she again looked up tear- 
fully and pressed her mother’s hand. 

“ I do not expect to be disappointed, love,” returned Mrs. Mont- 
gomery. 

They now entered a large fancy store. “ What are we to get 
here, mamma?” said Ellen. 

“ A box to put your pens and paper in,” said her mother, smiling. 

“Oh, to be sure,” said Ellen ; “I had almost forgotten that.” She 
quite forgot it a minute after. It was the first time she had ever 
seen the inside of such a store ; and the articles displayed on every 
side completely bewitched her. From one thing to another she 
went, admiring and wondering ; in her wildest dreams she had 
never imagined such beautiful things. The store was fairy-land. 

Mrs. Montgomery meanwhile attended to business. Having 
chosen a neat little japanned dressing- box, perfectly plain, but well 
supplied with everything a child could want in that line, she called 
Ellen from the delightful journey of discovery she was making 
round the store, and asked her what she thought of it. “ I think 
it’s a little beauty,” said Ellen ; but I never saw such a place for 
beautiful things.” 

“ You think it will do, then?” said her mother. 

“For me, mamma! You don’t mean to give it tome? Oh, 
mother, how good you are ! But I know what is the best way to 
thank you, and I’ll do it. What a perfect little beauty ! Mamma, 
I’m too happy.” 

“I hope not,” said her mother, “for you know I haven’t got 
you the box for your pens and paper yet.” 

“Well, mamma, I’ll try and bear it,” said Ellen, laughing. 
“ But do get me the plainest little thing in the world, for you’re 
giving me too much.” 

Mrs. Montgomery asked to look at writing-desks, and was shown 
to another part of the store for the purpose. “ Mamma,” said 
Ellen, in a low tone, as they went, “ you’re not going to get me a 
writing-desk ?” 

“ Why, that is the best kind of box for holding writing mate- 
rials,” said her mother, smiling; “don’t you think so?” 

“ I don’t know what to say !” exclaimed Ellen. “ I can’t thank 
you, mamma ; I haven’t any words to do it. I think I shall go 
crazy.” 

She was truly overcome with the weight of happiness. Words 
failed her, and tears came instead. 

From among a great many desks of all descriptions, Mrs. Mont- 
gomery with some difficulty succeeded in choosing one to her mind. 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 


33 


It was of mahogany, not very large, but thoroughly well made and 
finished, 'and very convenient and perfect in its internal arrange- 
ments. Ellen was speechless ; occasional looks at her mother, and 
deep sighs, were all she had now to offer. The desk was quite 
empty. “ Ellen,” said her mother, “do you remejnber the furni- 
ture of Miss Allen’s desk, that you were so pleased with a while 
ago.” 

“ Perfectly, mamma ; I know all that was in it.” 

“Well, then, you must prompt me if I forget anything. Your 
desk will be furnished with every thing really useful. Merely 
showy matters we can dispense with. Now, let us see. — Here is a 
great empty place that I think wants some paper to fill it. Show 
me some of different sizes, if you please.” 

The shopman obeyed, and Mrs. Montgomery stocked the desk 
well with letter paper, large and small. Ellen looked on in great 
satisfaction. “That will do nicely,” she said; — “that large paper 
will be beautiful whenever I am writing to you, mamma, you 
know, and the other will do for other times when I haven’t so 
much to say ; though I am sure I don’t know who there is in the 
world I should ever send letters to except you.” 

“ If there is nobody now, perhaps there will be at some future 
time,” replied her mother. “I hope I shall not always be your 
only correspondent. Now what next?” 

“ Envelopes, mamma ?” 

“To be sure ; I had forgotten them. Envelopes of both sizes 
to match.” 

“ Because, mamma, you know I might, and I certainly shall, 
want to write upon the fourth page of my letter, and I couldn’t do 
it unless I had envelopes.” 

A sufficient stock of envelopes was laid in. 

“Mamma,” said Ellen, “what do you think of a little note- 
paper?” 

“ Who are the notes to be written to, Ellen?” said Mrs. Mont- 
gomery, smiling. 

“ You needn’t smile, mamma ; you know, as you said, if I don’t 
now know, perhaps I shall by and by. Miss Allen’s desk had note- 
paper; that made me think of it.” 

“ So shall yours, daughter ; while we are about it we will do the 
thing well. And your note-paper will keep quite safely in this nice 
little place provided for it, even if you should not want to use a 
sheet of it in half a dozen years.” 

“ How nice that is l” said Ellen, admiringly. 

“I suppose the note-paper must have envelopes too,” said Mrs. 
Montgomery. 

“To be sure, mamma; I suppose so,” said Ellen, smiling; 
“ Miss Allen’s had.” 
c 


34 


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‘‘Well now we have got all the paper we want, I think,” said 
Mrs. Montgomery ; “ the next thing is ink, — or an inkstand rather.” 

Different kinds were presented for her choice. 

“ Oh, mamma, that one won’t do,” said Ellen, anxiously ; “ you 
know the desk will be knocking about in a trunk, and the ink 
would run out, and spoil every thing. It should be one of those that 
shut tight. I don’t see the right kind here.” 

The shopman brought one. 

“There, mamma, do you see?” said Ellen; “it shuts with a 
spring, and nothing can possibly come out ; do you see, mamma ? 
You can turn it topsy turvy.” 

“I see you are quite right, daughter ; it seems I should get on 
very ill without you to advise me. Fill the inkstand, if you 
please.” 

“ Mamma, what shall I do when my ink is gone? that inkstand 
will hold but a little, you know.” 

“ Your aunt will supply you, of course, my dear, when you are out.” 

“ I’d rather take some of my own by half,” said Ellen. 

“You could not carry a bottle of ink in your desk without great 
danger to every thing else in it. It would not do to venture.” 

“ We have excellent ink-powder,” said the shopman, “in small 
packages, which can be very conveniently carried about. You see, 
ma’am, there is a compartment in the desk for such things; and 
the ink is very easily made at any time.” 

“ Oh, that will do nicely,” said Ellen, “ that is just the thing.” 

“ Now what is to go in this other square place opposite the ink- 
stand?” said Mrs. Montgomery. 

“ That is the place for the box of lights, mamma.” 

“ What sort of lights?” 

“ For sealing letters, mamma, you know. They are not like your 
wax taper at all ; they are little wax matches, that burn just long 
enough to seal one or two letters ; Miss Allen showed me how she 
used them. Hers were in a nice little box just like the inkstand 
on the outside ; and there was a place to light the matches, and a 
place to set them in while they are burning. There, mamma, that’s 
it,” said Ellen, as the shopman brought forth the article which she 
was describing, “that’s it, exactly; and that will just fit. Now, 
mamma, for the wax.” 

“You want to seal your letter before you have written it,” said 
Mrs. Montgomery, — “ we have not got the pens yet.” 

“ That’s true, mamma ; let us have the pens. And some quills 
too, mamma?” 

“ Do you know how to make a pen, Ellen ?” 

“ No, mamma, not yet ; but I want to learn very much. Miss 
Pichegru says that every lady ought to know how to make her own 
pens.” 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 


35 


u Miss Pichegru is very right ; but I think you are rather too 
young to learn. However, we will try. Now here are steel points 
enough to last you a great while, — and as many quills as it is need- 
ful you should cut up for one year at least; — we haven’t a pen- 
handle yet.” 

“ Here, mamma,” said Ellen, holding out a plain ivory one, — 
“ don’t you like this ? I think that it is prettier than these that are 
all cut and fussed, or those other gay ones either.” 

“ I think so too, Ellen ; the plainer the prettier. Now what 
comes next ?” 

“ The knife, mamma, to make the pens,” said Ellen, smiling. 

“ True, the knife. Let us see some of your best pen-knives. 
Now, Ellen, choose. That one won’t do, my dear; it should have 
two blades, — a large as well as a small one. You know you want 
to mend a pencil sometimes.” 

“So I do, mamma, to be sure, you’re very right; here’s a nice 
one. Now, mamma, the wax.” 

“ There is a box full ; choose your own colours.” Seeing it was 
likely to be a work of time, Mrs. Montgomery walked away to 
another part of the store. When she returned Ellen had 
made up an assortment of the oddest colours she could find. 

“ I won’t have any red, mamma, it is so common,” she said. 

“ I think it is the prettiest of all,” said Mrs. Montgomery. 

“Do you, mamma? then I will have a stick of red on purpose 
to' seal to you with.” 

“ And who do you intend shall have the benefit of the other 
colours?” inquired her mother. 

“I declare, mamma,” said Ellen, laughing; “I never thought 
of that ; I am afraid they will have to go to you. You must not 
mind, mamma, if you get green and blue and yellow seals once in 
a while.” 

“ I dare say I shall submit myself to it with a good grace,” said 
Mrs. Montgomery. “ But come, my dear, have we got all that 
we want? This desk has been very long in furnishing.” 

“ You haven’t given me a seal yet, mamma.” 

“ Seals ! There are a variety before you ; see if you can find 
one that you like. By the way, you cannot seal a letter, can 
you?” 

“ Not yet, mamma,” said Ellen, smiling again ; “ that is another 
of the things I have got to learn.” 

“Then I think you had better have some wafers in the mean 
time.” 

While Ellen was picking out her seal, which took not a little 
time, Mrs. Montgomery laid in a good supply of wafers of all 
sorts ; and then went on further to furnish the desk with an ivory 
leaf-cutter, a paper-folder, a pounce-box, a ruler, and a neat little 


36 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD . 


silver pencil ; also, some drawing-pencils, India-rubber, and sheet3 
of drawing-paper. She took a sad pleasure in adding every thing 
she could think of that might be for Ellen’s future use or advan- 
tage ; but as with her own hands she placed in the desk one thing 
after another, the thought crossed her mind how Ellen would make 
drawings with those very pencils, on those very sheets of paper, 
which her eyes would never see ! She turned away with a sigh, 
and receiving Ellen’s seal from her hand, put that also in its place. 
Ellen had chosen one with her own name. 

“Will you send these things at once?” said Mrs. Montgomery. 
“ I particularly wish them at home as early in the day as possible.” 

The man promised. Mrs. Montgomery paid the bill, and she 
and Ellen left the store. 

They walked a little way in silence. 

“I cannot thank you, mamma,” said Ellen. 

“It is not necessary, my dear child,” said Mrs. Montgomery, 
returning the pressure of her hand ; “I know all that you would 
say.” 

There was as much sorrow as joy at that moment in the heart of 
the joyfullest of the two. 

“Where are we going now, mamma?” said Ellen again, after a 
while. 

“ I wished and intended to have gone to St. Clair and Fleury’s, 
to get you some merino and other things ; but we have been de- 
tained so long already that I think I had better go home. I feel 
somewhat tired.” 

“I am very sorry, dear mamma,” said Ellen; I am afraid I 
kept you too long about that desk.” 

“ You did not keep me, daughter, any longer than I chose to be 
kept. But I think I will go home now, and take the chance of 
another fine day for the merino.” 


CHAPTER IY. 

How can I live without thee: how forego 

Thy sweet converse, and love so dearly joined. — Milton. 

When dinner was over and the table cleared away, the mother 
and daughter were left, as they always loved to be, alone. It was 
late in the afternoon and already somewhat dark, for clouds had 
gathered over the beautiful sky of the morning, and the wind, 
rising now and then, made its voice heard. Mrs. Montgomery was 
lying on the sofa, as usual, seemingly at ease ; and Ellen was sitting 
on a little bench before the fire, very much at her ease, indeed, 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD . 37 

without any seeming about it. She smiled as she met her mother’s 
eyes. 

“ You have made me very happy to-day, mamma.” 

11 1 am glad of it, my dear child. I hoped I should. I believe the 
whole affair has given me as much pleasure, Ellen, as it has you.” 

There was a pause. 

u Mamma, I will take the greatest possible care of my new 
treasures.” 

“ I know you will. If I had doubted it, Ellen, most assuredly 
I should not have given them to you, sorry as I should have been 
to leave you without them. So you see you have not established a 
character for carefulness in vain.” 

“And, mamma, I hope you have not given them to me in vain, 
either. I will try to use them in the way that I know you wish 
me to ; that will be the best way I can thank you.” 

“ Well, I have left you no excuse, Ellen. You know fully what 
I wish you to do and to be ; and when I am away I shall please 
myself with thinking that my little daughter is following her 
mother’s wishes; I shall believe so, Ellen. You will not let me be 
disappointed ?” 

“ Oh, no, mamma, ” said Ellen, who was now in her mother’s arms. 

“ Well, my child,” said Mrs. Montgomery, in a lighter tone, 
“ my gifts will serve as reminders for you if you are ever tempted 
to forget my lessons. If you fail to send me letters, or if those 
you send are not what they ought to be, I think the desk will cry 
shame upon you. And if you ever go an hour with a hole in your 
stocking, or a tear in your dress, or a string off your petticoat, I 
hope the sight of your work-box will make you blush.” 

“ Work-box, mamma?” 

“Yes. Oh, I forgot; you’ve not seen that.” 

“ No, mamma ; what do you mean ?” 

“ Why, my dear, that was one of the things you most wanted, 
but I thought it best not to overwhelm you quite this morning ; so 
while you were on an exploring expedition round the store I chose 
and furnished one for you.” 

“ Oh, mamma, mamma!” said Ellen, getting up and clasping 
her hands ; “ what shall I do ? I don’t know what to say ; I can’t 
say anything. Mamma, it’s too much.” 

So it seemed, for Ellen sat down and began to cry. Her mother 
silently reached out a hand to her, which she squeezed and kissed 
with all the energy of gratitude, love, and sorrow ; till gently drawn 
by the same hand she was placed again in her mother’s arms and 
upon her bosom. And in that tried resting-place she lay, calmed 
and quieted, till the shades of afternoon deepened into evening, 
and evening into night, and the light of the fire was all that was 
left to them. 


4 


38 


THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD. 


Though not a word had been spoken for a long time Ellen was 
not asleep ; her eyes were fixed on the red glow of the coals in the 
grate, and she was busily thinking, but not of - them. Many sober 
thoughts were passing through her little head, and stirring her 
heart; a few were of her new possessions and bright projects, — 
more of her mother. She was thinking how very, very precious 
was the heart she could feel beating where her cheek lay — she 
thought it was greater happiness to lie there than any thing else in 
life could be — she thought she had rather even die so, on her 
mother’s breast, than live long without her in the world — she felt 
that in earth or in heaven there was nothing so dear. Suddenly 
she broke the silence. 

“ Mamma, what does that mean, 1 He that loveth father or 
mother more than me, is not worthy of me ?’ ” 

“ It means just what it says. If you love anybody or anything 
better than Jesus Christ, you cannot be one of his children.” 

“ But then, mamma,” said Ellen, raising her head ; how can I 
be one of his children ? I do love you a great deal better ; how 
can I help it, mamma?” 

“ You cannot help it, I know, my dear,” said Mrs. Montgomery, 
with a sigh, “ except by His grace who has promised to change 
the hearts of his people — to take away the heart of stone and give 
them a heart of flesh.” 

“But is mine a heart of stone, then, mamma, because I cannot 
help loving you best ?’ 5 

“Not to me, dear Ellen,” replied Mrs. Montgomery, pressing 
closer the little form that lay in her arms ; “ I have never found it 
so. But yet I know that the Lord Jesus is far, far more worthy 
of your affection than I am, and if your heart were not hardened 
by sin you would see him so ; it is only because you do not know 
him that you love me better. Pray, pray, my dear child, that he 
would take away the power of sin, and show you himself ; that is 
all that is wanting.” 

“I will, mamma,” said Ellen, tearfully. “Oh, mamma, what 
shall I do without you?” 

Alas, Mrs. Montgomery’s heart echoed the question; she had 
no answer. 

“ Mamma,”' said Ellen, after a few minutes, “can I have no 
true love to him at all unless I love him best?” 

“ I dare not say that you can,” answered her mother, seriously. 

“ Mamma,” said Ellen, after a little, again raising her head and 
looking her mother full in the face, as if willing to apply the se- 
verest test to this hard doctrine, and speaking with an indescribable 
expression, “do you love him better than you do me?” 

She knew her mother loved the Saviour, but she thought it 
scarcely possible that herself could have but the second place in 


THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD. 39 

her heart; she ventured a hold question to prove whether her 
mother’s practice would not contradict her theory. 

But Mrs. Montgomery answered steadily, “I do, my daughter 
and with a gush of tears Ellen sunk her head again upon her 
bosom. She had no more to say ; her mouth was stopped for ever 
as to the right of the matter, though she still thought it an im- 
possible duty in her own particular case. 

“ I do indeed, my daughter,” repeated Mrs. Montgomery; “ that 
does not make my love to you the less, but the more, Ellen.” 

“ Oh, mamma, mamma,” said Ellen, clinging to her, “ I wish you 
would teach me ! I have only you, and I am going to lose you. 
What shall I do, mamma?” 

With a voice that strove to be calm Mrs. Montgomery an- 
swered, “ 1 1 love them that love me, and they that seek me early 
shall find me.’ ” And after a minute or two she added, “ He who 
says this, has promised too that he will ‘ gather the lambs with his 
arm, and carry them in his bosom.’ ” 

The words fell soothingly on Ellen’s ear, and the slight tremor 
in the voice reminded her also that her mother must not be agi- 
tated. She checked herself instantly, and soon lay as before, quiet 
and still on her mother’s bosom, with her eyes fixed on the fire ; 
and Mrs. Montgomery did not know that when she now and then 
pressed a kiss upon the forehead that lay so near her lips, it every 
time brought the water to Ellen’s eyes and a throb to her heart. 
But after some half or three-quarters of an hour had passed away, 
a sudden knock at the door found both mother and daughter 
asleep ; it had to be repeated once or twice before the knocker 
could gain attention. 

“ What is that, mamma?” said Ellen, starting up. 

“ Somebody at the door. Open it quickly, love.” 

Ellen did so, and found a man standing there, with his arms 
rather full of sundry packages. 

“Oh, mamma, my things!” cried Ellen, clapping her hands; 
“ here they are !” 

The man placed his burden on the table, and withdrew. 

“ Oh, mamma, I am so glad they are come ! Now if I only 
had a light — this is my desk, I know, for it’s the largest; and I 
think this is my dressing-box, as well as I can tell by feeling — yes, 
it is, here’s the handle on top ; and this is my dear work-box — not 
so big as the desk, nor so little as the dressing-box. Oh, mamma, 
mayn’t I ring for a light?” 

There was no need, for a servant just then entered, bringing the 
wished-for candles and the not-wished-for tea. Ellen was capering 
about in the most fantastic style, but suddenly stopped short 
at sight of the tea-things, and looked very grave. “Well, 
mamma, I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” she said after a pause of con- 


40 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 


sideration ; “ I’ll make the tea the first thing, before I untie a 
single knot; won’t that be best, mamma? Because I know if I 
once begin to look, I shan’t want to stop. Don’t you think that 
is wise, mamma?” 

But alas ! the fire had got very low ; there was no making the 
tea quickly; and the toast was a work of time. And when all was 
over at length, it was then ''too late for Ellen to begin to undo 
packages. She struggled with impatience a minute or two, and 
then gave up the point very gracefully, and went to bed. 

She had a fine opportunity the next day to make up for the 
evening’s disappointment. It was cloudy and stormy; going out 
was not to be thought of, and it was very unlikely that any body 
would come in. Ellen joyfully allotted the whole morning to the 
examination and trial of her new possessions ; and as soon as break- 
fast was over and the room clear she set about it. She first went 
through the desk and every thing in it, making a running com- 
mentary on the excellence, fitness, and beauty of all it contained ; 
then the dressing-box received a share, but a much smaller share, 
of attention ; and lastly, with fingers trembling with eagerness she 
untied the packthread that was wound round the work-box, and 
slowly took off cover after cover ; she almost screamed when the 
last was removed. The box was of satin-wood, beautifully finished, 
and lined with crimson silk; and Mrs. Montgomery had taken 
good care it should want nothing that Ellen might need to keep 
her clothes in perfect order. 

“ Oh, mamma, how beautiful ! Oh, mamma, how good you are ! 
Mamma, I promise you I’ll never be a slattern. Here is more 
cotton than I can use up in a great while — every number, I do 
think ; and needles, oh, the needles ! what a parcel of them ! and, 
mamma ! what a lovely scissors ! did you choose it, mamma, or did 
it belong to the box?” 

“ I chose it.” 

“I might have guessed it, mamma, it’s just like you. And 
here’s a thimble — fits me exactly; and an emery-bag ! how pretty! 
— and a bodkin ! this is a great deal nicer than yours, mamma — 
yours is decidedly the worse for wear ; — and what’s this ? — Oh, to 
make eyelet holes with, I know. And oh, mamma ! here is almost 
every thing, I think — here are tapes, and buttons, and hooks and 
eyes, and darning cotton, and silk-winders, and pins, and all sorts 
of things. What’s this for, mamma?” 

“ That’s a scissors to cut button-holes with. Try it on that piece 
of paper that lies by you, and you will see how it works.” 

“ Oh, I see !” said Ellen, “ how very nice that is. Well, I shall 
take great pains now to make my button-holes very handsomely.” 

One survey of her riches could by no means satisfy Ellen. For 
some time she pleased herself with going over and over the con- 


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41 


tents of the box, finding each time something new to like. At 
length she closed it, and keeping it still in her lap, sat awhile 
looking thoughtfully into the fire ; till turning toward her mother 
she met her gaze, fixed mourntully, almost tearfully, on herself. 
The box was instantly shoved aside, and getting up and bursting 
into tears, Ellen went to her. “Oh, dear mother,” she said, “I 
wish they were all back in the store, if I could only keep you !” 

Mrs. Montgomery answered only by folding her to her heart. 

“ Is there no help for it, mamma?” 

“ There is none. — We know that all things shall work together 
for good to them that love God.” 

“ Then it will be all good for you, mamma, hut what will it be 
forme?” And Ellen sobbed bitterly. 

“ It will be all well, my precious child, I doubt not. I do not 
doubt it, Ellen. Do you not doubt it either, love ; but from the 
hand that wounds, seek the healing. He wounds that he may 
heal. He does not afflict willingly. Perhaps he sees, Ellen, that 
you never would seek him while you had me to cling to.” 

Ellen clung to her at that moment! yet not more than her 
mother clung to her. 

“ How happy we were, mamma, only a year ago, — even a 
month.” 

“We have no continuing city here,” answered her mother, with 
a sigh. “ But there is a home, Ellen, where changes do not come ; 
and they that are once gathered there are parted no more for ever ; 
and all tears are wiped from their eyes. I believe I am going fast 
to that home ; and now my greatest concern is, that my little Ellen 
— my precious baby — may follow me and come there too.” 

No more was said, nor could be said, till the sound of the doc- 
tor’s steps upon the stair obliged each of them to assume an ap- 
pearance of composure as speedily as possible. But they could 
not succeed perfectly enough to blind him. He did not seem very 
well satisfied, and told Ellen he believed he should have to get 
another nurse, — he was afraid she didn’t obey orders. 

While the doctor was there Ellen’s Bible was brought in ; and 
no sooner was he gone than it underwent as thorough an examina- 
tion as the boxes had received. Ellen went over every part of it 
with the same great care and satisfaction ; but mixed with a different 
feeling. The words that caught her eye as she turned over the 
leaves seemed to echo what her mother had been saying to her. 
It began to grow dear already. After a little she rose and brought 
it to the sofa. 

“Are you satisfied with it, Ellen?” 

“ Oh, yes, mamma ; it is perfectly beautiful, outside and inside. 
Now, mamma, will you please to write my name in this precious 
book — my name, and any thing else you please, mother. I’ll 

4 * 


42 THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 

bring you my new pen to write it with, and I’ve got ink here ; — 

shall i r 

She brought it; and Mrs. Montgomery wrote Ellen’s name, and 
the date of the gift. The pen played a moment in her fingers, 
and then she wrote below the date : 

“ 1 1 love them that love me ; and they that seek me early shall 
find me.’ ” 

This was for Ellen ; but the next words were not for her ; what 
made her write them ? — 

“ ‘I will be a God to thee, and to thy seed after thee.’ ” 

They were written almost unconsciously, and as if bowed by an 



unseen force Mrs. Montgomery’s head sank upon the open page; 
and her whole soul went up with her petition : 

“ Let these words be my memorial, that I have trusted in thee. 
And oh, when these miserable lips are silent for ever, remember 
the word unto thy servant, upon which thou hast caused me to 
hope ; and be unto my little one all thou hast been to me. Unto 
thee lift I up mine eyes, 0 thou that dwellest in the heavens !” 

She raised her face from the book, closed it, and gave it silently 
to Ellen. Ellen had noticed her action, but had no suspicion of 
the cause ; she supposed that one of her mother’s frequent feelings 
of weakness or sickness had made her lean her head upon the 
Bible, and she thought no more about it. However, Ellen felt 
that she wanted no more of her boxes that day. She took her 
old place by the side of her mother’s sofa, with her head upon her 
mother’s hand, and an expression of quiet sorrow in her face that 
it had not worn for several days. 


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43 


CHAPTER V. 

My child is yet a stranger in the world, 

She hath not seen the change of fourteen years. 

Shakspeare. 

The next day would not do for the intended shopping ; nor the 
next. The third day was fine, though cool and windy. 

“Do you think you can venture out to-day, mamma?” said 
Ellen. 

“I am afraid not. I do not feel quite equal to it ; and the wind 
is a great deal too high for me besides.” 

“ Well,” said Ellen, in the tone of one who is making up her 
mind to something, “ we shall have a fine day by and by, I suppose, 
if we wait long enough ; we had to wait a great while for our first 
shopping day. I wish such another would come round.” 

“ But the misfortune is,” said her mother, “ that we cannot afford 
to wait. November will soon be here, and your clothes may be 
suddenly wanted before they are ready, if we do not bestir ourselves. 
And Miss Rice is coming in a few days — I ought to have the merino 
ready for her.” 

“ What will you do, mamma?” 

“ I do not know, indeed, Ellen ; I am greatly at a loss.” 

“ Couldn’t papa get the stuff's for you, mamma?” 

“ No, he’s too busy ; and besides, he knows nothing at all about 
shopping for me ; he would be sure to bring me exactly what I do 
not want. I tried that once.” 

“ Well, what will you do, mamma? Is there nobody else you 
could ask to get the things for you ? Mrs. Foster would do it, 
mamma !” 

“ I know she would, and I should ask her without any difficulty, 
but she is confined to her room with a cold. I see nothing for it 
but to be patient and let things take their course, though if a favor- 
able opportunity should offer, you would have to go, clothes or no 
clothes; it would not do to lose the chance of a good escort.” 

And Mrs. Montgomery’s face showed that this possibility, of 
Ellen’s going unprovided, gave her some uneasiness. Ellen ob- 
served it. 

“Never mind me, dearest mother ; don’t be in the least worried 
about my clothes. You don’t know how little I think of them or 
care for them. IPs no matter at all whether I have them or not.” 

Mrs. Montgomery smiled, and passed her hand fondly over her 
little daughter’s head, but presently resumed her anxious look out 
of the window. 


44 


THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD. 


“ Mamma!” exclaimed Ellen, suddenly starting up, “a bright 
thought has just come into my head ! Til do it for you, mamma !” 

“ Do what?” 

“ I’ll get the merino and things for you, mamma. You needn't 
smile, — I will, indeed, if you will let me.” 

u My dear Ellen,” said her mother, “I don’t doubt you would 
if goodwill only were wanting ; but a great deal of skill and ex- 
perience is necessary for a shopper, and what would you do without 
either ?’ ’ 

“ But see, mamma,” pursued Ellen, eagerly, “ I’ll tell you how 
I’ll manage, and I know I can manage very well. You tell me 
exactly what coloured merino you want, and give me a little piece to 
show me how fine it should be, and tell me what price you wish to 
give, and then I’ll go to the store and ask them to show me different 
pieces, you know, and if I see any I think you would like, I’ll ask 
them to give me a little bit of it to show you ; and then I’ll bring 
it home, and if you like it you can give me the money, and tell me 
how many yards you want, and I can go back to the store and get 
it. Why can’t I, mamma?” 

“ Perhaps you could ; but my dear child I am afraid you wouldn’t 
like the business.” 

“ Yes I should ; indeed, mamma, I should like it dearly if I 
could help you so. Will you let me try, mamma?” 

“ I don’t like, my child, to venture you alone on such an errand, 
among crowds of people ; I should be uneasy about you.” 

“ Dear mamma, what would the crowds of people do to me ? I 
am not a bit afraid. You know, mamma, I have often taken walks 
alone, — that’s nothing new ; and what harm should come to me 
while I am in the store ? You needn’t be the least uneasy about 
me ; — may I go ?” 

Mrs. Montgomery smiled, but was silent. 

“ May I go, mamma ?” repeated Ellen. “ Let me go at least and 
try what I can do. What do you say, mamma?” 

“ I don’t know what to say, my daughter, but I am in difficulty 
on either hand. I will let you go and see what you can do. It 
would be a great relief to me to get this merino by any means.” 

“ Then shall I go right away, mamma?” 

“ As well now as ever. You are not afraid of the wind ?” 

“I should think not,” said Ellen ; and away she scampered up 
stairs to get ready. With eager haste she dressed herself ; then 
with great care and particularity took her mother’s instructions as 
to the article wanted ; and finally set out, sensible that a great 
trust was reposed in her, and feeling busy and important accord- 
ingly. But at the very bottom of Ellen’s heart there was a little 
secret doubtfulness respecting her undertaking. She hardly knew 
it was there, but then she couldn’t tell what it was that made her 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 


45 


fingers so inclined to be tremulous while she was dressing, and that 
made her heart beat quicker than it ought, or than was pleasant, 
and one of her cheeks so much hotter than the other. However, 
she set forth upon her errand with a very brisk step, which she 
kept up till on turning a corner she came in sight of the place she 
was going to. Without thinking much about it, Ellen had directed 
her steps to St. Clair and Fleury’s. It was one of the largest and 
best stores in the city, and the one she knew where her mother 
generally made her purchases ; and it did not occur to her that it 
might not be the best for her purpose on this occasion. But her 
steps slackened as soon as she came in sight of it, and continued 
to slacken as she drew nearer, and she went up the broad flight of 
marble steps in front of the store very slowly indeed, though they 
were exceeding low and easy. Pleasure was not certainly the 
uppermost feeling in her mind now ; yet she never thought of 
turning back. She knew that if she could succeed in the object 
of her mission her mother would be relieved from some anxiety ; 
that was enough ; she was bent on accomplishing it. 

Timidly she entered the large hall of entrance. It was full of 
people, and the buzz of business was heard on all sides. Ellen 
had for some time past seldom gone a shopping with her mother, 
and had never been in this store but once or twice before. She 
had not the remotest idea where, or in what apartment of the 
building, the merino counter was situated, and she could see no one 
to speak to. She stood irresolute in the middle of the floor. Every 
body seemed to be busily engaged with somebody else ; and when- 
ever an opening on one side or another appeared to promise her an 
opportunity, it was sure to be filled up before she could reach it, 
and disappointed and abashed she would return to her old station 
in the middle of the floor. Clerks frequently passed her, crossing 
the store in all directions, but they were always bustling along in 
a great hurry of business ; they did not seem to notice her at all, 
and were gone before poor Ellen could get her mouth open to speak 
to them. She knew well enough now, poor child, what it was that 
made her cheeks burn as they did, and her heart beat as if it would 
burst its bounds. She felt confused, and almost confounded, by the 
incessant hum of voices, and moving crowd of strange people all 
around her, while her little figure stood alone and unnoticed in the 
midst of them ; and there seemed no prospect that she would be 
able to gain the ear or the eye of & single person. Once she de- 
termined to accost a man she saw advancing toward her from a 
distance, and. actually made up to him for the purpose, but with a 
hurried bow, and “ I beg your pardon, miss !” he brushed past. 
Ellen almost burst into tears. She longed to turn and run out of 
the store, but a faint hope remaining, and an unwillingness to give 
up her undertaking, kept her fast. At length one of the clerks in 


46 


THE WIDE WIDE WORLD. 


the desk observed her, and remarked to Mr. St. Clair who stood by, 
“ There is a little girl, sir, who seems to be looking for something, 
or waiting for somebody; she has been standing there a good 
while.” Mr. St. Clair, upon this, advanced to poor Ellen’s relief. 

“ What do you wish, miss ?” he said. 

But Ellen had been so long preparing sentences, trying to utter 
them and failing in the attempt, that now, when an opportunity to 
speak and be heard was given her, the power of speech seemed to 
be gone. 

‘‘Do you wish any thing, miss?” inquired Mr. St. Clair again. 

“Mother sent me,” stammered Ellen, — “I wish, if you please, 
sir, — mamma wished me to look at merinoes, sir, if you please.” 

“ Is your mamma in the store ?” 

“ No, sir,” said Ellen, “ she is ill, and cannot come out, and she 
sent me to look at merinoes for her, if you please, sir.” 

“ Here, Saunders,” said Mr. St. Clair, “ show this young lady 
the merinoes.” 

Mr. Saunders made his appearance from among a little group of 
clerks, with whom he had been indulging in a few jokes by way 
of relief from the tedium of business. “ Come this way,” he said 
to Ellen ; and sauntering before her, with a rather dissatisfied air, 
led the way out of the entrance hall into another and much larger 
apartment. There were plenty of people here too, and just as 
busy as those they had quitted. Mr. Saunders having brought 
Ellen to the merino counter, placed himself behind it ; and leaning 
over it and fixing his eyes- carelessly upon her, asked what she 
wanted to look at. His tone and manner struck Ellen most un- 
pleasantly, and made her again wish herself out of the store. He 
was a tall lank young man, with a quantity of fair hair combed 
down on each side of his face, a slovenly exterior, and the most 
disagreeable pair of eyes, Ellen thought, she had ever beheld. She 
could not bear to meet them, and cast down her own. Their look 
was bold, ill-bred, and ill-humoured ; and Ellen felt, though she 
couldn’t have told why, that she need not expect either kindness 
or politeness from him. 

“ What do you want to see, little one ?” inquired this gentlemen, 
as if he had a business on hand he would like to be rid of. Ellen 
heartily wished he was rid of it, and she too. “ Merinoes, if you 
please,” she answered, without looking up. 

“Well, what kind of merinQes? Here are all sorts and de- 
scriptions of merinoes, and I can’t pull them all down, you know, 
for you to look at. What kind do you want?” 

“ I don’t know without looking,” said Ellen, “ won’t you please 
to show me some ?” 

He tossed down several pieces upon the counter, and tumbled 
them about before her. 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 


47 


“ There,” said he, “is that any thing like what you want? 
There’s a pink one, — and there’s a blue one, — and there’s a green 
one. Is that the kind ?” 

“This is the kind,” said Ellen; “but this isn’t the colour I 
want.” 

“ What colour do you want?” 

“Something dark, if you please.” 

“Well, there, that green’s dark; won’t that do? See, that 
would make up very pretty for you.” 

“No,” said Ellen, “mamma don’t like green.” 

“Why don’t she come and choose her stuffs herself, then? 
What colour does she like ?” 

“Dark blue, or dark brown, or a nice grey, would do,” said 
Ellen, “if it is fine enough.” 

“‘'Dark blue,’ or ‘dark brown,’ or a ‘nice grey,’ eh! Well, 
she’s pretty easy to suit. A dark blue I’ve showed you already, 
— what’s the matter with that?” 

“It isn’t dark enough,” said Ellen. 

“Well,” said he discontentedly, pulling down another piece, 
“how’ll that do? That’s dark enough.” 

It was a fine and beautiful piece, very different from those he 
had showed her at first. Even Ellen could see that, and fumbling 
for her little pattern of merino, she compared it with the piece. 
They agreed perfectly as to fineness. 

“What is the price of this?” she asked, with trembling hope 
that she was going to be rewarded by success for all the trouble 
of her enterprise. 

“ Two dollars a yard.” 

Her hopes and countenance fell together. “That’s too high,” 
she said with a sigh. 

“Then take this other blue; come, — it’s a great deal prettier 
than that dark one, and not so dear ; and I know your mother will 
like it better.” 

Ellen’s cheeks were tingling and her heart throbbing, but she 
couldn’t bear to give up. 

“ Would you be so good as to show me some grey?” 

He slowly and ill-humouredly complied, and took down an ex- 
cellent piece of dark grey, which Ellen fell in love with at once ; 
but she was again disappointed ; it was fourteen shillings. 

“Well, if you won’t take that, take something else,” said the 
man ; “ you can’t have every thing at once ; if you will have cheap 
goods of course you can’t have the same quality that you like ; 
but now here’s this other blue, only twelve shillings, and I’ll let 
you have it for ten if you’ll take it.” 

“ No, it is too light and too coarse,” said Ellen, “ mamma 
wouldn’t like it.” 


48 


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“Let me see,” said he, seizing her pattern and pretending to 
compare it ; “ it’s quite as fine as this, if that’s all you want.” 

“ Could you,” said Ellen timidly, “ give me a little bit of this 
grey to show mamma?” 

“Oh, no!” said he, impatiently, tossing over the cloths and 
throwing Ellen’s pattern on the floor ;“we can’t cut up our goods ; 
if people don’t choose to buy of us they may go somewhere else, 
and if you cannot decide upon any thing I must go and attend to 
those that can. I can’t wait here all day.” 

“ What’s the matter, Saunders?” said one of his brother clerks, 
passing him. 

“ Why, I’ve been here this half hour showing cloths to a child 
that doesn’t know merino from a sheep’s hack,” said he, laughing. 
And some other customers coming up at the moment, he was as 
good as his word, and left Ellen, to attend to them. 

Ellen stood a moment stock still, just where he had left her, 
struggling with her feelings of mortification ; she could not endure 
to let them be seen. Her face was on fire ; her head was dizzy. 
She could not stir at first, and in spite of her utmost eiforts she 
could not command back one or two rebel tears that forced their 
way ; she lifted her hand to her face to remove them as quietly as 
possible. “ What is all this about, my little girl?” said a strange 
voice at her side. Ellen started, and turned her face, with the 
tears but half wiped away, toward the speaker. It was an old 
gentleman, an odd old gentleman too, she thought ; one she cer- 
tainly would have been rather shy of if she had seen him under 
other circumstances. But though his face was odd, it looked 
kindly upon her, and it was a kind tone of voice in which his 
question had been put ; so he seemed to her like a friend. “ What 
is all this ?” repeated the old gentleman. Ellen began to tell what 
it was, but the pride which had forbidden her to weep before 
strangers gave way at one touch of sympathy, and she poured out 
tears much faster than words as she related her story, so that it 
was some little time before the old gentleman could get a clear 
notion of her case. He waited very patiently till she had finished ; 
but then he set himself in good earnest about righting the wrong. 
“ Hallo! you, sir!” he shouted, in a voice that made every body 
look round; “you merino man! come and show your goods: 
why aren’t you at your post, sir?” — as Mr. Saunders came up 
with an altered countenance — “here’s a young lady you’ve left 
standing unattended-to I don’t know how long; are these your 
manners ?” 

“ The young lady did not wish any thing, I believe, sir,” returned 
Mr. Saunders softly. 

“You know better, you scoundrel,” retorted the old gentleman, 
who was in a great passion; “I saw the whole matter with my 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 49 

own eyes. You are a disgrace to the store, sir, and deserve to be 
sent out of it, which you are like enough to be.” 

“I really thought, sir,” said Mr. Saunders, smoothly, — for he 
knew the old gentleman, and knew very well he was a person that 
must not be offended, — “ I really thought — I was not aware, sir, 
that the young lady had any occasion for my services.” 

“ Well, show your wares, sir, and hold your tongue. Now, my 
dear, what did you want?” 

“ I wanted a little bit of this grey merino, sir, to show to 
mamma ; — I couldn’t buy it, you know, sir, until I found out 
whether she would like it.” 

“ Cut a piece, sir, without any words,” said the old gentleman. 
Mr. Saunders obeyed. 

“Did you like this best?” pursued the old gentleman. 

“ I like this dark blue very much, sir, and I thought mamma 
would ; but it’s too high.” 

“ How much is it ?” inquired he. 

“Fourteen shillings,” replied Mr. Saunders. 

“ He said it was two dollars !” exclaimed Ellen. 

“ I beg pardon,” said the crest-fallen Mr. Saunders, “the young 
lady mistook me ; I was speaking of another piece when I said 
two dollars.” 

“ He said this was two dollars, and the grey fourteen shillings,” 
said Ellen. 

“ Is the grey fourteen shillings,” inquired the old gentleman. 

“I think not, sir,” answered Mr. Saunders — “I believe not, 
sir, — I think it’s only twelve, — I’ll inquire, if you please, sir.” 

“ No, no,” said the old gentleman, “ I know it was only twelve 
— I know your tricks, sir. Cut a piece off the blue. Now, my 
dear, are there any more pieces of which you would like to take 
patterns, to show your mother ?” 

“No, sir,” said the overjoyed Ellen; “I am sure she will like 
one of these.” 

“ Now shall we go, then ?” 

“If you please, sir,” said Ellen, “ I should like to have my bit 
of merino that I brought from home ; mamma wanted me to bring 
it back again.” 

“ Where is it ?” 

“ That gentleman threw it on the floor.” 

“ Do you hear, sir?” said the old gentleman ; “ find it directly.” 

Mr. Saunders found and delivered it, after stooping in search of 
it till he was very red in the face ; and he was left, wishing heartily 
that he had some safe means of revenge, and obliged to cbme to 
the conclusion that none was within his reach, and that he must 
stomach his indignity in the best manner he could. But Ellen and 
her protector went forth most joyously together from the store, 
c d 5 


50 


THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD. 


“Do you live far from here?” asked the old gentleman. 

“ Oh, no, sir,” said Ellen, “ not very j it’s only at Green's Hotel, 
in Southing street.” 

“ I’ll go with you,” said he, “ and when your mother has decided 
which merino she will have, we’ll come right back and get it. I 
do not want to trust you again to the mercy of that saucy clerk.” 

“Oh, thank you, sir!” said Ellen, “that is just what I was 
afraid of. But I shall be giving you a great deal of trouble, sir,” 
she added, in another tone. 

“No you won’t,” said the old gentleman, “ I can’t be troubled, 
so you needn’t say any thing about that.” 

They went gayly along — Ellen’s heart about five times as light 
as the one with which she had travelled that very road a little 
while before. Her old friend was in a very cheerful mood too, for 
he assured Ellen laughingly, that it was of no manner of use for 
her to be in a hurry, for he could not possibly set off and skip to 
Green’s Hotel, as she seemed inclined to do. They got there at 
last. Ellen showed the old gentleman into the parlour, and ran up 
stairs in great haste to her mother. But in a few minutes she 
came down again, with a very April face, for smiles were playing 
in every feature, while the tears were yet wet upon her cheeks. 

“ Mamma hopes you’ll take the trouble, sir, to come up stairs,” 
she said, seizing his hand ; “ she wants to thank you herself, sir.” 

“ It is not necessary,” said the old gentleman, “it is not neces- 
sary at all;” but he followed his little conductor nevertheless to 
the door of her mother’s room, into which she ushered him with 
great satisfaction. 

Mrs. Montgomery was looking very ill — he saw that at a glance. 
She rose from her sofa, and extending her hand thanked him with 
glistening eyes for his kindness to her child. 

“I don’t deserve any thanks, ma’am,” said the old gentleman; 
“ I suppose my little friend has told you what made us acquainted ?” 

“She gave me a very short account of it,” said Mrs. Mont- 
gomery. 

“ She was very disagreeably tried,” said the old gentleman. “ I 
presume you do not need to be told, ma’am, that her behaviour was 
such as would have become any years. I assure you, ma’am, if I 
had had no kindness in my composition to feel for the child , my 
honour as a gentleman would have made me interfere for the lady.” 

Mrs. Montgomery smiled, but looked through glistening eyes 
again on Ellen. “ I am very glad to hear it,” she replied. “ I was 
very far from thinking, when I permitted her to go on this errand, 
that I'was exposing her to any thing more serious than the annoy- 
ance a timid child would feel at having to transact business with 
strangers.” 

“I suppose not,” said the old gentleman; “but it isn’t a sort 


THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD. 


51 


of thing that should be often done. There are all sorts of people 
in this world, and a little one alone in a crowd is in danger of being 
trampled upon.” 

Mrs. Montgomery’s heart answered this with an involuntary 
pang. He saw the shade that passed over her face as she said 
sadly : 

U I know it, sir; and it was with strong unwillingness that I 
allowed Ellen this morning to do as she had proposed ; but in truth 
I was but making a choice «between difficulties. I am very sorry 
I chose as I did. If you are a father, sir, you know better than I 
can tell you, how grateful I am for your kind interference.” 

“ Say nothing about that, ma’am ; the less the better. I am an 
old man, and not good for much now, except to please young peo- 
ple. I think myself best off when I have the best chance to do 
that. So if you will be so good as to choose that merino, and let 
Miss Ellen and me go and despatch our business, you will be con- 
ferring and not receiving a favour. And any other errand that you 
please to intrust her with I’ll undertake to see her safe through.” 

His look and manner obliged Mrs. Montgomery to take him at 
his word. A very short examination of Ellen’s patterns ended in 
favour of the grey merino ; and Ellen was commissioned not only 
to get and pay for this, but also to choose a dark dress of the same 
stuff, and enough of a certain article called nankeen for a coat ; 
Mrs. Montgomery truly opining that the old gentleman’s care would 
do more than see her scathless, — that it would have some regard to 
the justness and prudence of her purchases. 

In great glee Ellen set forth again with her new old friend. Her 
hand was fast in his, and her tongue ran very freely, for her heart 
was completely opened to him. He seemed as pleased to listen as 
she was to talk ; and by little and little Ellen told him all her his- 
tory ; the troubles that had come upon her in consequence of her 
mother’s illness, and her intended journey and prospects. 

That was a happy day to Ellen. They returned to St. Clair and 
Fleury’s ; bought the grey merino, and the nankeen, and a dark 
brown merino for a dress. “ Do you want only one of these ?” 
asked the old gentleman. 

“ Mamma said only one,” said Ellen ; “ that will last me all the 
winter.” 

“Well,” said he, “I think two will do better. Let us have 
another off the same piece, Mr. Shopman.” 

“ But I am afraid mamma won’t like it, sir,” said Ellen, gently. 

“ Pho, pho,” said he, “ your mother has nothing to do with this ; 
this is my affair.” He paid for it accordingly. “ Now, Miss Ellen,” 
said he, when they left the store, “ have you got any thing in the 
shape of a good warm winter bonnet? For it’s as cold as the 
mischief up there in Thirl wall ; your pasteboard things won’t do ; 


52 


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if you don’t take good care of your ears you will lose them some 
fine frosty day. You must quilt and pad, and all sorts of things, 
to keep alive and comfortable. So you haven’t a hood, eh? Do 
you think you and I could make out to choose one that your 
mother would think wasn’t quite a fright? Come this way, and 
I let us see. If she don’t like it she can give it away, you know.” 

He led the delighted Ellen into a milliner’s shop and after 
i turning over a great many different articles chose her a nice warm 
| hood, or quilted bonnet. It was of dark blue silk, well made and 
pretty. He saw with great satisfaction that it fitted Ellen well, 
and would protect her ears nicely ; and having paid for it and 
ordered it home, he and Ellen sallied forth into the street again. 
But he wouldn’t let her thank him. “ It is just the very thing I 
wanted, sir,” said Ellen ; “ mamma was speaking about it the other 
day, and she did not see how I was ever to get one, because she 
did not feel at all able to go out, and I could not get one myself ; 
I know she’ll like it very much.” 

“ Would you rather have something for yourself or your mother, 
Ellen, if you could choose, and have but one?” 

“ Oh, for mamma, sir,” said Ellen — “ a great deal !” 

“ Come in here,” said he ; “let us see if we can find anything 
she would like.” 

It was a grocery store. After looking about a little, the old 
gentleman ordered sundry pounds of figs and white grapes to be 
packed up in papers ; and being now very near home he took one 
parcel and Ellen the other till they came to the door of Green’s 
Hotel, where he committed both to her care. 

“ Won’t you come in, sir?” said Ellen. 

“ No,” said he, “ I can’t this time — I must go home to dinner.” 

“And shan’t I see you any more, sir?” said Ellen, a shade 
coming over her face, which a minute before had been quite 
joyous. 

“Well, I don’t know,” said he kindly; “I hope you will. You 
shall hear from me again at any rate I promise you. We’ve spent 
one pleasant morning together, haven’t we? Good-by, good-by.” 

Ellen’s hands were full, but the old gentleman took them in 
both his, packages and all, and shook them after a fashion, and 
again bidding her good-by, walked away down the street. 

The next morning Ellen and her mother were sitting quietly 
together, and Ellen had not finished her accustomed reading, when 
there came a knock at the door. “ My old gentleman !” cried 
Ellen, as she sprung to open it. No — there was no old gentleman, 
but a black man with a brace of beautiful woodcock in his hand. 
He bowed very civilly, and said he had been ordered to leave the 
birds with Miss Montgomery. Ellen, in surprise, took them from 
him, and likewise a note which he delivered into her hand. Ellen 


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53 


asked from whom the birds came, but with another polite how the 
man said the note would inform her, and went away. In great 
curiosity she carried them and the note to her mother, to whom 
the letter was directed. It read thus : — 

“ Will Mrs. Montgomery permit an old man to please himself in 
his own way, by showing his regard for her little daughter, and 
not feel that he is taking a liberty? The birds are for Miss Ellen .” 



“Oh, mamma!” exclaimed Ellen, jumping with delight, “did 
you ever see such a dear old gentleman ? Now I know what he 
meant yesterday, when he asked me if I would rather have something 
for myself or for you. How kind he is ! to do just the very thing 
for me that he knows would give me the most pleasure. Now, 
mamma, these birds are mine, you know, and I give them to you. 
You must pay me a kiss for them, mamma ; they are worth that. 
Aren’t they beauties 9 ” 


5 * 


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“ They are very fine indeed,” said Mrs. Montgomery ; “ This is 
just the season for woodcock, and these are in beautiful condition.” 

“ Do you like woodcocks, mamma ?”• 

“ Yes, very much.” 

“ Oh, how glad I am !” said Ellen. “ I’ll ask Sam to have them 
done very nicely for you, and then you will enjoy them so much.” 

The waiter was called, and instructed accordingly, and to him 
the birds were committed, to be delivered to the care of the cook. 

“ Now, mamma,” said Ellen, “ I think these birds have made 
me happy for all day.” 

“ Then I hope, daughter, they will make you busy for all day. 
You have ruffles to hem, and the skirts of your dresses to make, 
we need not wait for Miss Rice to do that ; and when she comes 
you will have to help her, for I can do little. You can’t be too 
industrious.” 

“Well, mamma, I am as willing as can be.” 

This was the beginning of a pleasant two weeks to Ellen ; 
weeks to which she often looked back afterwards, so quietly and 
swiftly the day? fled away in busy occupation and sweet intercourse 
with her mother. The passions which were apt enough to rise in 
Ellen’s mind upon occasion, were for the present kept effectually 
in check. She could not forget that her days with her mother 
would very soon be at an end, for a long time at least ; and this 
consciousness, always present to her mind, forbade even the wish 
to do any thing that might grieve or disturb her. Love and ten- 
derness had absolute rule for the time, and even had power to 
overcome the sorrowful thoughts that would often rise, so that in 
spite of them peace reigned. And perhaps both mother and 
daughter enjoyed this interval the more keenly because they knew 
that sorrow was at hand. 

All this whiLe there was scarcely a day that the old gentleman’s 
servant did not knock at their door, bearing a present of game. 
The second time he came with some fine larks ; next was a superb 
grouse; then woodcock again. Curiosity strove with astonish- 
ment and gratitude in Ellen’s mind. “ Mamma,” she said, after 
she had admired the grouse for five minutes, “ I cannot rest with- 
out finding out who this old gentleman is.” 

“I am sorry for that,” replied Mrs. Montgomery gravely, “for 
I see no possible way of your doing it.” 

“ Why, mamma, couldn’t I ask the man that brings the birds 
what his name is ? He must know it.” 

“ Certainly not ; it would be very dishonourable.” 

“ Would it, mamma? — why ?” 

“ This old gentleman has not chosen to tell you his name ; he 
wrote his note without signing it, and his man has obviously been 
instructed not to disclose it ; don’t you remember, he did not tell 


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55 


it when you asked him, the first time he came. Now this shows 
the old gentleman wishes to keep it secret, and to try to find it out 
in any way would he a very unworthy return for his kindness.” 

“ Yes, it wouldn’t be doing as I would be done by, to be sure; 
but would it be dishonour able , mamma ?” 

“Very. It is very dishonourable to try to find out that about 
other people which does not concern you, and which they wish to 
keep from you. Remember that, my dear daughter.” 

“ I will, mamma. I’ll never do it, I promise you.” 

“ Even in talking with people, if you discern in them any un- 
willingness to speak upon a subject, avoid it immediately, provided 
of course that some higher interest do not oblige you to go on. 
That is true politeness, and true kindness, which are nearly the 
same ; and not to do so, I assure you, Ellen, proves one wanting in 
true honour.” 

“ Well, mamma, I don’t care what his name is, — at least I won’t 
try to find out: — but it does worry me that I cannot thank him. 
I wish he knew how much I feel obliged to him.” 

“ Very well ; write and tell him so.” 

“Mamma!” said Ellen, opening her eyes very wide, — “can I? 
— would you?” 

“ Certainly, — if you like. It would be very proper.” 

“ Then I will ! I declare that is a good notion. I’ll do it the 
first thing, and then I can give it to that man if he comes to- 
morrow, as I suppose he will. Mamma,” said she, on opening her 
desk, “ how funny ! don’t you remember you wondered who I was 
going to write notes to ? here is one now, mamma ; it is very lucky 
I have got note-paper.” 

More than one sheet of it was ruined before Ellen had satisfied 
herself with what she wrote. It was a full hour from the time 
she began when she brought the following note for her mother’s 
inspection: — 

“ Ellen Montgomery does not know how to thank the old gen- 
tleman who is so kind to her. Mamma enjoys the birds very 
much, and I think I do more ; for I have the double pleasure of 
giving them to mamma, and of eating them afterwards ; but your 
kindness is the best of all. I can’t tell you how much I am 
obliged to you, sir, but I will always love you for all you have 
done for me. 

“Ellen Montgomery.” 

This note Mrs. Montgomery approved ; and Ellen having with 
great care and great satisfaction enclosed it in an envelope, suc- 
ceeded in sealing it according to rule and very well. Mrs. Mont- 
gomery laughed when she saw the direction, but let it go. With- 


56 


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out consulting her, Ellen had written on the outside, “ To the old 
gentleman.” She sent it the next morning by the hands of the 
same servant, who this time was the bearer of a plump partridge 
“ To Miss Montgomery and her mind was a great deal easier on 
this subject from that time. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Mac. What is the night ? 

Lady Mac. Almost at odds with morning, which is which. 

Macbeth. 

October was now far advanced. One evening, the evening of 
the last Sunday in the month, Mrs. Montgomery was lying in the 
parlour alone. Ellen had gone to bed some time before ; and now in 
the stillness of the Sabbath evening the ticking of the clock was 
almost the only sound to be heard. The hands were rapidly ap- 
proaching ten. Captain Montgomery was abroad ; and he had been 
so, — according to custom, — or in bed, the whole day. The mother 
and daughter had had the Sabbath to themselves ; and most quietly 
and sweetly it had passed. They had read together, prayed together, 
talked together a great deal ; and the evening had been spent in 
singing hymns ; but Mrs. Montgomery s strength failed here, and 
Ellen sang alone. She was not soon weary. Hymn succeeded 
hymn, with fresh and varied pleasure ; and her mother could not 
tire of listening. The sweet words, and the sweet airs, — which 
were all old friends, and brought of themselves many a lesson of 
wisdom and consolation, by the mere force of association, — needed 
not the recommendation of the clear childish voice in which they 
were sung which was of all things the sweetest to Mrs. Montgomery’s 
ear. She listened, — till she almost felt as if earth were left behind, 
and she and her child already standing within the walls of that 
city where sorrow and sighing shall be no more, and the tears shall 
be wiped from all eyes for ever. Ellen’s next hymn, however, 
brought her back to earth again, but though her tears flowed freely 
while she heard it, all her causes of sorrow could not render them 
bitter. 


God in Israel sows the seeds 
Of affliction, pain, and toil; 

These spring up and choke the weeds 
Which would else o’erspread the soil. 
Trials make the promise sweet, — 

Trials give new life to prayer, — 
Trials bring me to his feet, 

Lay me low, and keep me there. 


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57 


“ It is so indeed, dear Ellen,” said Mrs. Montgomery when she had 
finished, and holding the little singer to her breast, — “ I have always 
found it so. God is faithful. I have seen abundant cause to thank 
him for all the evils he has made me suffer heretofore, and I do not 
doubt it will be the same with this last and worst one. Let us 
glorify him in the fires, my daughter ; and if earthly joys be 
stripped from us, and if we be torn from each other, let us cling 
the closer to him, — he can and he will in that case make up to us 
more than all we have lost.” 

Ellen felt her utter inability to join in her mother’s expressions 
of confidence and hope ; to her there was no brightness on the 
cloud that hung over them, — it was all dark. She could only press 
her lips in tearful silence to the one and the other of her mother’s 
cheeks alternately. How sweet the sense of the coming parting 
made every such embrace ! This one, for particular reasons, was 
often and long remembered. A few minutes they remained thus 
in each other’s arms, cheek pressed against cheek, without speaking ; 
but then Mrs. Montgomery remembered that Ellen’s bedtime was 
already past, and dismissed her. 

For a while after Mrs. Montgomery remained just where Ellen 
had left her, her busy thoughts roaming over many things in the 
far past, and the sad present, and the uncertain future. She was 
unconscious of the passage of time, and did not notice how the 
silence deepened as the night drew on, till scarce a footfall was 
heard in the street, and the ticking of the clock sounded with that 
sad distinctness which seems to say, — “ Time is going on — time is 
going on, — and you are going with it, — do what you will you can’t 
help that.” It was just upon the stroke of ten, and Mrs. Mont- 
gomery was still wrapped in her deep musings, when a sharp brisk 
footstep in the distance aroused her, rapidly approaching ; — and she 
knew very well whose it was, and that it would pause at the door, 
before she heard the quick run up the steps, succeeded by her 
husband’s tread upon the staircase. And yet she saw him open 
the door with a kind of startled feeling which his appearance now 
invariably caused her ; the thought always darted through her head, 
“ perhaps he brings news of Ellen’s going.” Something, it would 
have been impossible to say what, in his appearance or man- 
ner, confirmed this fear on the present occasion. Her heart felt 
sick, and she waited in silence to hear what he would say. He 
seemed very well pleased; sat down before the fire rubbing his 
hands, partly with cold and partly with satisfaction ; and his 
first words were, “ Well ! we have got a fine opportunity for her 
at last.” 

How little he was capable of understanding the pang this an- 
nouncement gave his poor wife ! But she only closed her eyes and 
kept perfectly quiet, and he never suspected it.” 


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He unbuttoned his coat, and taking the poker in his hand began 
to mend the fire, talking the while. 

“ I am very glad of it indeed,” said he, — “ it’s quite a load off 
my mind. Now we’ll be gone directly, and high time it is — I’ll 
take passage in the England the first thing to-morrow. And this 
is the best possible chance for Ellen — every thing we could have 
desired. I began to feel very uneasy about it, — it was getting so 
late, — but I am quite relieved now.” 

“ Who is it?” said Mrs. Montgomery, forcing herself to speak. 

“ Why, it’s Mrs. Dunscombe,” said the captain, flourishing his 
poker by way of illustration, — “ you know her, don’t you ? — Cap- 
tain Dunscombe’s wife — she’s going right through Thirl wall, and 
will take charge of Ellen as far as that, and there my sister will 
meet her with a wagon and take her straight home. Couldn’t be 
any thing better. I write to let Fortune know when to expect her. 
Mrs. Duncombe is a lady of the first family and fashion — in the 
highest degree respectable ; she is going on to Fort Jameson, with 
her daughter and a servant, and her husband is to follow her in a 
few days. I happened to hear of it to-day, and I immediately 
seized the opportunity to ask if she would not take Ellen with her 
as far as Thirlwall, and Dunscombe was only too glad to oblige me. 
I’m a very good friend of his, and he knows it.” 

“ How soon does she go ?” 

“ Why — that’s the only part of the business I am afraid you 
won’t like, — but there is no help for it ; — and after all it is a great 
deal better so than if you had time to wear yourselves out with 
mourning — better and easier too, in the end.” 

“ How soon ?” repeated Mrs. Montgomery, with an agonized 
accent. 

“ Why— I’m a little afraid of startling you — Dunscombe’s wife 
must go, he told me, to-morrow morning; and we arranged that 
she should call in the carriage at six o’clock to take up Ellen.” 

Mrs. Montgomery put her hands to her face and sank back 
against the sofa. 

“ I was afraid you would take it so,” said her husband, “but I 

don’t think it is worth while. It is a great deal better as it is, 

a great deal better than if she had a long warning. You would 
fairly wear yourself out if you had time enough ; and you haven’t 
any strength to spare.” 

It was some while before Mrs. Montgomery could recover com- 
posure and firmness enough to go on with what she had to do, 
though knowing the necessity, she strove hard for it. For sev- 
eral minutes she remained quite silent and quiet, endeavouring 
to collect her scattered forces ; then sitting upright and drawing 
her shawl around her she exclaimed, “ I must waken Ellen imme- 
diately !” 


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59 


“Waken Ellen!” exclaimed her husband in his turn, — “what 
on earth for ? That’s the very last thing to be done.” 

“ Why you would not put off telling her until to morrow morn- 
ing?” said Mrs. Montgomery. 

“ Certainly I would — that’s the only proper way to do. Why in 
the world should you wake her up, just to spend the whole night 
in useless grieving? — unfitting her utterly for her journey, and 
doing yourself more harm than you can undo in a week. No, no, 
— just let her sleep quietly, and you go to bed and do the same. 
Wake her up, indeed ! I thought you were wiser.” 

“ But she will be so dreadfully shocked in the morning !” 

“Not one bit more than she would be to-night, and she won’t 
have so much time to feel it. In the hurry and bustle of getting 
off she will not have time to think about her feelings ; and once 
on the way she will do well enough ; — children always do.” 

Mrs. Montgomery looked undecided and unsatisfied. 

“ I’ll take the responsibility of this matter on myself, — you 
must not waken her, absolutely. It would not do at all,” said the 
captain, poking the fire very energetically, — “ it would not do at 
all, — I cannot allow it.” 

Mrs. Montgomery silently arose and lit a lamp. 

“ You are not going into Ellen’s room ?” said the husband. 

“ I must — I must put her things together.” 

“ But you’ll not disturb Ellen?” said he, in a tone that required 
a promise. 

“ Not if I can help it.” 

Twice Mrs. Montgomery stopped before she reached the door of 
Ellen’s room, for her heart failed her. But she must go on, and 
the necessary preparations for the morrow must be made ; — she 
knew it ; and repeating this to herself she gently turned the handle 
of the door and pushed it open, and guarding the light with her 
hand from Ellen’s eyes, she set it where it would not shine upon 
her. Having done this, she set herself, without once glancing at 
her little daughter, to put all things in order for her early departure 
on the following morning. But it was a bitter piece of work for 
her. She first laid out all that Ellen would need to wear, — the 
dark merino, the new nankeen coat, the white bonnet, the clean 
frill that her own hands had done up, the little gloves and shoes, 
and all the etceteras, with the thoughtfulness and the carefulness 
of love ; but it went through and through her heart that it was the 
very last time a mother’s fingers would ever be busy in arranging 
or preparing Ellen’s attire; the very last time she would ever see 
or touch even the little inanimate things that belonged to her ; and 
painful as the task was she was loth to have it come to an end. It 
was with a kind lingering unwillingness to quit her hold of them 
that one thing after another was stowed carefully and neatly away 


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in the trunk. She felt it was love’s last act ; words might indeed 
a few times yet come over the ocean on a sheet of paper ; — but 
sight, and hearing, and touch must all have done henceforth for 
ever. Keenly as Mrs. Montgomery felt this, she went on busily 
with her work all the while; and when the last thing was safely 
packed, shut the trunk and locked it without allowing herself to 
stop and think, and even drew the straps. And then, having fin- 
ished all her task, she went to the bedside ; she had not looked 
that way before. 

Ellen was lying in the deep sweet sleep of childhood ; the easy 
position, the gentle breathing, and the flush of health upon the 
cheek showed that all causes of sorrow were for the present far 
removed. Yet not so far either ; — for once when Mrs. Montgomery 
stooped to kiss her, light as the touch of that kiss had been upon 
her lips, it seemed to awaken a train of sorrowful recollections in 
the little sleeper’s mind. A shade passed over her face, and with 
gentle but sad accent the word, “ Mamma !” burst from the parted 
lips. Only a moment, — and the shade passed away, and the ex- 
pression of peace settled again upon her brow ; but Mrs. Mont- 
gomery dared not try the experiment a second time. Long she 
stood looking upon her, as if she knew she was looking her last ; 
then she knelt by the bedside and hid her face in the coverings, — 
but no tears came ; the struggle in her mind and her anxious fear 
for the morning’s trial, made weeping impossible. Her husband 
at length came to seek her, and it was well he did ; she would have 
remained there on her knees all night. He feared something of 
the kind, and came to prevent it. Mrs. Montgomery suffered her- 
self to be led away without making any opposition ; and went to 
bed as usual, but sleep was far from her. The fear of Ellen’s dis- 
tress when she would be awakened and suddenly told the truth, 
kept her in an agony. In restless wakefulness she tossed and 
turned uneasily upon her bed, watching for the dawn, and dreading 
unspeakably to see it. The captain, in happy unconsciousness of 
his wife’s distress and utter inability to sympathize with it, was 
soon in a sound sleep, and his heavy breathing was an aggravation 
of her trouble ; it kept repeating, what indeed she knew already, 
that the only one in the world who ought to have shared and soothed 
her grief was not capable of doing either. Wearied with watching 
and tossing to and fro, she at length lost herself a moment in un- 
easy slumber, from which she suddenly started in terror, and seiz- 
ing her husband’s arm to arouse him, exclaimed, “ It is time to wake 
Ellen !” but she had to repeat her efforts two or three times before 
she succeeded in making herself heard. 

“What is the matter?” said he heavily, and not over well 
pleased at the interruption. 

“ It is time to wake Ellen.” 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD . 61 

“ No it isn’t,” said he, relapsing, — “ it isn’t time yet this great 
while.” 

“Oh, yes it is,” said Mrs. Montgomery; — “I am sure it is; I 
see the beginning of dawn in the east.” 

“Nonsense! it’s no such thing; it’s the glimmer of the lamp- 
light ; what is the use of your exciting yourself so for nothing. 
It won’t be dawn these two hours. Wait till I find my repeater, 
and I’ll convince you.” 

He found and struck it. 

“ There ! I told you so — only one quarter after four ; it would 
be absurd to wake her yet. Do go to sleep and leave it to me ; 

! I’ll take care it is done in proper time.” 

Mrs. Montgomery sighed heavily, and again arranged herself to 
i watch the eastern horizon, or rather with her face in that direc- 
tion ; for she could see nothing. But more quietly now she lay 
gazing into the darkness which it was in vain to try to penetrate ; 
and thoughts succeeding thoughts in a more regular train, at last 
fairly cheated her into sleep, much as she wished to keep it off. 
She slept soundly for near an hour ; and when she awoke the dawn 
had really begun to break in the eastern sky. She again aroused 
Captain Montgomery, who this time allowed it might be as well to 
get up ; but it was with unutterable impatience that she saw him 
lighting a lamp, and moving about as leisurely as if he had 
nothing more to do than to get ready for breakfast at eight 
1 o’clock. 

“Oh, do speak to Ellen!” she said, unable to control herself. 
“ Never mind brushing your hair till afterwards. She will have 
no time for any thing. Oh, do not wait any longer ! what are you 
thinking of?” 

“What are you thinking of?” said the captain; — “there’s 
plenty of time. Do quiet yourself — you’re getting as nervous as 
possible. I’m going immediately.” 

Mrs. Montgomery fairly groaned with impatience and an ago- 
nizing dread of what was to follow the disclosure to Ellen. But her 
husband coolly went on with his preparations, which indeed were 
not long in finishing ; and then taking the lamp he at last went. 
He had in truth delayed on purpose, wishing the final leave-taking 
to be as brief as possible ; and the grey streaks of light in the 
east were plainly showing themselves when he opened the door of 
his little daughter’s room. He found her lying very much as her 
mother had left her, — in the same quiet sleep, and with the same 
expression of calmness and peace spread over her whole face and 
person. It touched even him, — and he was not readily touched 
by any thing ; — it made him loth to say the word that would drive 
all that sweet expression so quickly and completely away. It must 
be said, however; the increasing light warned him he must not 

6 


62 THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 

tarry ; but it was with a hesitating and almost faltering voice that 
he said, “ Ellen !” 

She stirred in her sleep, and the shadow came over her face 
again. 

“Ellen! Ellen!” 

She started up, — broad awake now ; — and both the shadow and 
the peaceful expression were gone from her face. It was a look 
of blank astonishment at first with which she regarded her father, 
but very soon indeed that changed into one of blank despair. He 
saw that she understood perfectly what he was there for, and that 
there was no need at all for him to trouble himself with making 
painful explanations. 

“ Come, Ellen,” he said, — “ that’s a good child, make haste and 
dress. There’s no time to lose now, for the carriage will soon be 
at the door; and your mother wants to see you, you know.” 

Ellen hastily obeyed him, and began to put on her stockings 
and shoes. 

“That’s right — now you’ll be ready directly. You are going 
with Mrs. Dunscombe — I have engaged her to take charge of you 
all the way quite to Thirlwall ; she’s the wife of Captain Duns- 
combe, whom you saw here the other day, you know ; and her 
daughter is going with her, so you will have charming company. 
I dare say you will enjoy the journey very much ; and your aunt 
will meet you at Thirlwall. Now, make haste — I expect the car- 
riage every minute. I meant to have called you before, but I 
overslept myself. Don’t be long.” 

And nodding encouragement, her father left her. 

“How did she bear it?” asked Mrs. Montgomery when he re- 
turned. 

“ Like a little hero. She didn’t say a word, or shed a tear. I 
expected nothing but that she would make a great fuss ; but she 
has all the old spirit that you used to have, — and have yet, for 
any thing I know. She behaved admirably.” 

Mrs. Montgomery sighed deeply. She understood far better 
than her husband what Ellen’s feelings were, and could interpret 
much more truly than he the signs of them ; the conclusions she 
drew from Ellen’s silent and tearless reception of the news differed 
widely from his. She now waited anxiously and almost fearfully 
for her appearance, which did not come as soon as she expected it. 

It was a great relief to Ellen when her father ended his talking, 
and left her to herself; for she felt she could not dress herself so 
quick with him standing there and looking at her, and his desire 
that she should be speedy in what she had to do could not be greater 
than her own. Her fingers did their work as fast as they could, 
with every joint trembling. But though a weight like a mountain 
was upon the poor child’s heart, she could not cry ; and she could 


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63 


not pray, — though true to her constant habit she fell on her knees 
by her bedside as she always did : it was in vain ; all was in a 
whirl in her heart and head, and after a minute she rose again, 
clasping her little hands together with an expression of sorrow 
that it was well her mother could not see. She was dressed very 
soon, but she shrank from going to her mother’s room while her 
father was there. To save time she put on her coat, and every 
thing but her bonnet and gloves ; and then stood leaning against 
the bed-post, for she could not sit down, watching with most in- 
tense anxiety to hear her father’s step come out of the room and 
go down stairs. Every minute seemed too long to be borne ; poor 
Ellen began to feel as if she could not contain herself. Yet five 
had not passed away when she heard the roll of carriage-wheels 
which came to the door and then stopped, and immediately her 
father opening the door to come out. Without waiting any longer 
Ellen opened her own, and brushed past him into the room he had 
quitted. Mrs. Montgomery was still lying on the bed, for her hus- 
band had insisted on her not rising. She said not a word, but 
opened her arms to receive her little daughter ; and with a cry of 
indescribable expression Ellen sprang upon the bed, and was folded 
in them. But then neither of them spoke or wept. What could 
words say ? Heart met heart in that agony, for each knew all that 
was in the other. No, — not quite all. Ellen did not know that 
the whole of bitterness death had for her mother she was tasting 
then. But it was true. Death had no more power to give her 
pain after this parting should be over. His after- work, — the part- 
ing between soul and body, — would be welcome rather ; yes, very 
welcome. Mrs. Montgomery knew it all well. She knew this was 
the last embrace between them. She knew it was the very last 
time that dear little form would ever lie on her bosom, or be pressed 
in her arms ; and it almost seemed to her that soul and body must 
part company too when they should be rent asunder. Ellen’s 
grief was not like this ; — she did not think it was the last time ; — 
but she was a child of very high spirit and violent passions,, un- 
tamed at all by sorrow’s discipline ; and in proportion violent was 
the tempest excited by this first real trial. Perhaps, too, her sor- 
row was sharpened by a sense of wrong and a feeling of indigna- 
tion at her father’s cruelty in not waking her earlier. 

Not many minutes had passed in this sad embrace, and no word 
had yet been spoken, no sound uttered, except Ellen’s first inarticu- 
late cry of mixed affection and despair, when Captain Montgomery’s 
step was again heard slowly ascending the stairs. “ He is coming 
to take me away!” thought Ellen; and in terror lest she should 
go without a word from her mother, she burst forth with, “ Mamma ! 
speak !” 

A moment before, and Mrs. Montgomery could not have spoken. 


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But she could now ; and as clearly and calmly the words were 
uttered as if nothing had been the matter, only her voice fell a 
little toward the last. 

“ God bless my darling child ! and make her his own, — and bring 
her to that home where parting cannot be.” 

Ellen’s eyes had been dry until now; but when she heard the 
sweet sound of her mother’s voice, it opened all the fountains of 
tenderness within her. She burst into uncontrollable weeping ; it 
seemed as if she would pour out her very heart in tears ; and she 
clung to her mother with a force that made it a difficult task for 
her father to remove her. He could not do it at first ; and Ellen 
seemed not to hear any thing that was said to her. He was very 
unwilling to use harshness ; and after a little, though she had paid 
no attention to his entreaties or commands, yet sensible of the ne- 
cessity of the case, she gradually relaxed her hold and suffered him 
to draw her away from her mother’s arms. He carried her down 
stairs, and put her on the front seat of the carriage, beside Mrs. 
Dunscombe’s maid, — but Ellen could never recollect how she got 
there, and she did not feel the touch of her father’s hand, nor hear 
him when he bid her good-by ; and she did not know that he put 
a large paper of candies and sugar-plums in her lap. She knew 
nothing but that she had lost her mother. 

“ It will not be so long,” said the captain, in a kind of apolo- 
gizing way ; “ she will soon get over it, and you will not have any 
trouble with her.” 

“ I hope so,” returned the lady, rather shortly ; and then, as the 
captain was making his parting bow, she added, in no very pleased 
tone of voice, “ Pray, Captain Montgomery, is this young lady to 
travel without a bonnet?” 

“Bless me! no,” said the captain. “ How is this? hasn’t she 
a bonnet? I beg a thousand pardons, ma’am, — I’ll bring it on the 
instant.” 

After a little delay, the bonnet was found, but the captain over- 
looked the gloves in his hurry. 

“ I am very sorry you have been delayed, ma’am,” said he. 

“ I hope we may be able to reach the boat yet,” replied the lady. 
“ Drive on as fast as you can !” 

A very polite bow from Captain Montgomery — a very slight one 
from the lady — and off they drove. 

“Proud enough,” thought the captain, as he went up the stairs 
again. “ I reckon she don’t thank me for her travelling companion. 
But Ellen’s off — that’s one good thing: — and now I’ll go and 
engage berths in the England.” 


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65 


CHAPTER VII. 

“ So fair and foul a day I have not seen.” 

Macbeth. 

The long drive to the boat was only a sorrowful blank to Ellen’s 
recollection. She did not see the frowns that passed between her 
companions on her account. She did not know that her white 
bonnet was such a matter of merriment to Margaret Dunscombe 
and the maid, that they could hardly contain themselves. She did 
not find out that Miss Margaret’s fingers were busy with her paper 
of sweets, which only a good string and a sound knot kept her 
from rifling. Yet she felt very well that nobody there cared in 
the least for her sorrow. It mattered nothing ; she wept on in her 
loneliness, and knew nothing that happened, till the carriage stopped 
on the wharf ; even then she did not raise her head. Mrs. Duns- 
combe got out, and saw her daughter and servant do the same ; then 
j after giving some orders about the baggage, she returned to Ellen. 

“ Will you get out, Miss Montgomery ? or would you prefer to 
j remain in the carriage? We must go on board directly.” 

There was something, not in the words, but in the tone, that 
struck Ellen’s heart with an entirely new feeling. Her tears 
stopped instantly, and wiping away quick the traces of them as 
well as she could, she got out of the carriage without a word, aided 
by Mrs. Dunscombe’s hand. The party was presently joined by a 
fine-looking man, whom Ellen recognised as Captain Dunscombe. 

“ Dunscombe, do put these girls on board, will you ? and then 
| come back to me ; I want to speak to you. Timmins, you may go 
» along and look after them.” 

Captain Dunscombe obeyed. When they reached the deck, 
Margaret Dunscombe and the maid Timmins went straight to the 
cabin. Not feeling at all drawn toward their company, as indeed 
they had given her no reason, Ellen planted herself by the guards 
of the boat, not far from the gangway, to watch the busy scene 
that at another time would have had a great deal of interest and 
i amusement for her. And interest it had now ; but it was with a 
j very, very grave little face that she looked on the bustling crowd. 

The weight on her heart was just as great as ever, but she felt this 
| was not the time or the place to let it be seen ; so for the present 
she occupied herself with what was passing before her, though it 
did not for one moment make her forget her sorrow. 

At last the boat rang her last bell. Captain Dunscombe put his 
wife on board, and had barely time to jump off the boat again when 
the plank was withdrawn. The men on shore cast off the great 
e 6* 


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loops of ropes that held the boat to enormous wooden posts on the 
wharf, and they were off! 

At first it seemed to Ellen as if the wharf and the people upon 
it were sailing away from them backwards ; but she presently for- 
got to think of them at all. She was gone ! — she felt the bitter- 
ness of the whole truth ; — the blue water already lay between her 
and the shore, where she so much longed to be. In that confused 
mass of buildings at which she was gazing, but which would be so 
soon beyond even gazing distance, was the only spot she cared for 
in the world ; her heart was there. She could not see the place, to 
be sure, nor tell exactly whereabouts it lay in all that wide-spread 
city ; but it was there, somewhere, — and every minute was making 
it farther and farther off. It’s a bitter thing, that sailing away 
from all one loves ; and poor Ellen felt it so. She stood leaning 
both her arms upon the rail, the tears running down her cheeks, 
and blinding her so that she could not see the place toward which 
her straining eyes were bent. Somebody touched her sleeve, — it 
was Timmins. 

“ Mrs. Dunscombe sent me to tell you she wants you to come 
into the cabin, miss.” 

Hastily wiping her eyes, Ellen obeyed the summons, and followed 
Timmins into the cabin. It was full of groups of ladies, children, 
and nurses, — bustling and noisy enough. Ellen wished she might 
have stayed outside ; she wanted to be by herself ; but as the next 
best thing, she mounted upon the bench which ran all round the 
saloon, and kneeling on the cushion by one of the windows, placed 
herself with the edge of her bonnet just touching the glass, so that 
nobody could see a bit of her face, while she could look out near 
by as well as from the deck. Presently her ear caught, as she 
thought, the voice of Mrs. Dunscombe, saying in rather an under- 
tone, but laughing too, “ What a figure she does cut in that out- 
landish bonnet !” 

Ellen had no particular reason to think she was meant, and yet 
she did think so. She remained quite still, but with raised colour 
and quickened ’breathing waited to hear what would come next. 
Nothing came at first, and she was beginning to think she had per- 
haps been mistaken, when she plainly heard Margaret Dunscombe 
say, in a loud whisper, “ Mamma, I wish you could contrive some 
way to keep her in the cabin — can’t you? she looks so odd in that 
queer sun-bonnet kind of a thing, that any body would think she 
had come out of the woods, and no gloves too ; I shouldn’t like to 
have the Miss M’ Arthurs think she belonged to us — can’t you, 
mamma ?” 

If a thunderbolt had fallen at Ellen’s feet, the shock would 
hardly have been greater. The lightning of passion shot through 
every vein. And it was not passion only ; there was hurt feeling 


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67 


and wounded pride, and the sorrow of which her heart was full 
enough before, now wakened afresh. The child was beside herself. 
One wild wish for a hiding-place was the most pressing thought, — 
to be where tears could burst and her heart could break unseen. 
She slid off her bench and rushed through the crowd to the red 
curtain that cut off the far end of the saloon ; and from there down 
to the cabin below, — people were everywhere. At last she spied a 
nook where she could be completely hidden. It was in the far-back 
end of the boat, just under the stairs by which she had come down. 
Nobody was sitting on the three or four large mahogany steps that 
ran round that end of the cabin and sloped up to the little cabin 
window ; and creeping beneath the stairs, and seating herself on the 
lowest of these steps, the poor child found that she was quite screened 
and out of sight of every human creature. It was time indeed ; her 
heart had been almost bursting with passion and pain, and now the 
pent-up tempest broke forth with a fury that racked her little frame 
from head to foot ; and the more because she strove to stifle every 
sound of it as much as possible. It was the very bitterness of sorrow, 
without any softening thought to allay it, and sharpened and made 
more bitter by mortification and a passionate sense of unkindness and 
! wrong. And through it all, how constantly in her heart the poor 
child was reaching forth longing arms toward her far-off mother, 
and calling in secret on her beloved name. “ Oh, mamma ! mammal” 
was repeated numberless times, with the unspeakable bitterness of 
knowing that she would have been a sure refuge and protection 
from all this trouble, but was now where she could neither reach 
: nor hear her. Alas ! how soon and how sadly missed. 

Ellen’s distress was not soon quieted, or, if quieted for a moment, 
it was only to break out afresh. And then she was glad to sit still 
and rest herself. 

Presently she heard the voice of the chambermaid up stairs, at 
a distance at first, and coming nearer and nearer. “ Breakfast ready, 
ladies — Ladies, breakfast ready !” and then came all the people in a 
rush, pouring down the stairs over Ellen’s head. She kept quite 
: still and close, for she did not want to see any body, and could not 
bear that any body should see her. Nobody did see her ; they all 
went off into the next cabin, where breakfast was set. Ellen began 
5 to grow tired of her hiding-place and to feel restless in her confine- 
ment ; she thought this would be a good time to get away ; so she 
crept from her station under the stairs and mounted them as quick 
and as quietly as she could. She found almost nobody left in the 
saloon, — and breathing more freely, she possessed herself of her 
I despised bonnet, which she had torn off her head in the first burst 
of her indignation, and passing gently out at the door, went up the 
stairs which led to the promenade deck ; — she felt as if she could 
not get far enough from Mrs. Dunscombe. 


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The promenade deck was very pleasant in the bright morning 
sun ; and nobody was there except a lew gentlemen. Ellen sat 
down on one of the settees that were ranged along the middle of 
it, and, much pleased at having found herself such a nice place of 
retreat, she once more took up her interrupted amusement of watch- 
ing the banks of the river. 

It was a fair, mild day, near the end of October, and one of the 
loveliest of that lovely month. Poor Ellen, however, could not 
fairly enjoy it just now. There was enough darkness in her heart 
to put a veil over all nature’s brightness. The thought did pass 
through her mind when she first went up, how very fair every thing 
was ; — but she soon forgot to think about it at all. They were now 
in a wide part of the river; and the shore toward which she was 
looking was low and distant, and offered nothing to interest her. 
She ceased to look at it, and presently lost all sense of every thing 
around and before her, for her thoughts went home. She remem- 
bered that sweet moment last night when she lay in her mother’s 
arms, after she had stopped singing, could it be only last night ? it 
seemed a long, long time ago. She went over again in imagination 
her shocked waking up that very morning, — how cruel that was ! — her 
hurried dressing, — the miserable parting, — and those last words of 
her mother, that seemed to ring in her ears yet. “ That home 
where parting cannot be.” “ Oh,” thought Ellen, “ how shall I 
ever get there ? who is there to teach me now ? Oh, what shall I 
do without you? Oh, mamma ! how much I want you already ! ’ 

While poor Ellen was thinking these things over and over, her 
little face had a deep sadness of expression it was sorrowful to see. 
She was perfectly calm ; her violent excitement had all left her ; 
her lip quivered a very little sometimes, but that was all ; and one 
or two tears rolled slowly down the side of her face. Her eyes 
were fixed upon the dancing water, but it was very plain her 
thoughts were not, nor on any thing else before her ; and there 
was a forlorn look of hopeless sorrow on her lip and cheek and 
brow, enough to move any body whose heart was not very hard. 
She was noticed, and with a feeling of compassion, by several peo- 
ple ; but they all thought it was none of their business to speak to 
her, or they didn’t know how. At length, a gentleman who had 
been for some time walking up and down the deck, happened to 
look, as he passed, at her little pale face. He went to the end of 
his walk that time, but in coming back he stopped just in front of 
her, and bending down his face toward hers, said, “ What is the 
matter with you, my little friend ?” 

Though his figure had passed before her a great many times 
Ellen had not seen him at all ; for “ her eyes were with her heart, 
and that was far away.” Her cheek flushed with surprise as she 
looked up. But there was no mistaking the look of kindness in 


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69 


the eyes that met hers, nor the gentleness and grave truthfulness 
of the whole countenance. It won her confidence immediately. 
All the floodgates of Ellen’s heart were at once opened. She 
could not speak, but rising and clasping the hand that was held 
out to her in both her own, she bent down her head upon it, and 
burst into one of those uncontrollable agonies of weeping, such as 
the news of her mother’s intended departure had occasioned that 
first sorrowful evening. He gently, and as soon as he could, drew 
her to a retired part of the deck where they were comparatively 
free from other people’s eyes and ears ; then taking her in his 
arms he endeavoured by many kind and soothing words to stay the 
torrent of her grief. This fit of weeping did Ellen more good 
than the former one ; that only exhausted, this in some little 
measure relieved her. 

“ What is all this about?” said her friend kindly. “ Nay, never 
mind shedding any more tears about it, my child. Let me hear 
what it is ; and perhaps we can find some help for it.” 

“ Oh, no you can’t, sir,” said Ellen sadly. 

“ Well, let us see,” said he, — “perhaps I can. What is it that 
has troubled you so much?” 

“I have lost my mother, sir,” said Ellen. 

“ Your mother ! Lost her ! — how ?” 

“ She is very ill, sir, and obliged to go away over the sea to 
France to get well; and papa could not take me with her,” said 
poor Ellen, weeping again, “and I am obliged to go to be among 
strangers. Oh, what shall I do?” 

“ Have you left your mother in the city?” 

“ Oh, yes, sir ! I left her this morning.” 

“ What is your name ?” 

“ Ellen Montgomery.” 

“ Is your mother obliged to go to Europe for her health ?” 

“ Oh, yes, sir ; nothing else would have made her go, but the 
doctor said she would not live long if she didn’t go, and that would 
cure her.” 

“ Then you hope to see her come back by and by, don’t you?” 

“ Oh, yes, sir ; but it won’t be this great, great, long while ; it 
seems to me as if it was for ever.” 

“ Ellen, do you know who it is that sends sickness and trouble 
upon us?” 

“ Yes, sir, I know ; but I don’t feel that that makes it any 
easier.” 

“ Do you know why he sends it ? He is the God of love, — he 
does not trouble us willingly, — he has said so ; — why does he ever 
make us suffer? do you know?” 

“ No, sir.” 

“ Sometimes he sees that if he lets them alone, his children will 


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love some dear thing on the earth better than himself, and he 
knows they will not be happy if they do so ; and then, because he 
loves them, he takes it away, — perhaps it is a dear mother, or a 
dear daughter, — or else he hinders their enjoyment of it; that 
they may remember him, and give their whole hearts to him. He 
wants their whole hearts, that he may bless them. Are you one 
of his children, Ellen?” 

“No, sir,” said Ellen, with swimming eyes, but cast down to 
the ground. 

“ How do you know that you are not?” 

“ Because I do not love the Saviour.” 

“Do you not love him, Ellen?” 

“ I am afraid not, sir.” 

“ Why are you afraid not ? what makes you think so ?” 

“ Mamma said I could not love him at all if I did not love him 
best; and oh, sir,” said Ellen weeping, “ I do love mamma a great 
deal better.” 

“ You love your mother better than you do the Saviour?” 

“ Oh, yes, sir,” said Ellen ; “ how can I help it?” 

“ Then if he had left you your mother, Ellen, you would never 
have cared or thought about him ?” 

Ellen was silent. 

“ Is it so ? — would you, do you think ?” 

“I don’t know, sir,” said Ellen, weeping again, — “oh, sir, how 
can I help it ?” 

“ Then Ellen, can you not see t]je love of your Heavenly Father 
in this trial ? He saw that his little child was in danger of forget- 
ting him, and he loved you, Ellen ; and so he has taken your dear 
mother, and sent you away where you will have no one to look to 
but him ; and now he says to you, ‘ My daughter, give me thy 
heart.’ — Will you do it, Ellen?” 

Ellen wept exceedingly while the gentleman was saying these 
words, clasping his hands still in both hers ; but she made no an- 
swer. He waited till she had become calmer, and then went on in 
a low tone, — 

“ What is the reason that you do not love the Saviour, my 
child?” 

“ Mamma says it is because my heart is so hard.” 

“ That is true ; but you do not know how good and how lovely 
he is, or you could not help loving him. Do you often think of 
him, and think much of him, and ask him to show you himself 
that you may love him ?” 

“ No, sir,” said Ellen, — “ not often.” 

“ You pray to him, don’t you?” 

“ Yes, sir ; but not so.” 

“ But you ought to pray to him so. We are all blind by nature, 


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71 


Ellen ; — we are all hard-hearted ; none of us can see him or love 
him unless he opens our eyes and touches our hearts ; but he has 
promised to do this for those that seek him. Do you remember 
what the blind man said when Jesus asked him what he should do 
for him ? — he answered, ‘ Lord, that I may receive my sight !’ 
That ought to be your prayer now, and mine too ; and the Lord is 
j ust as ready to hear us as he was to hear the poor blind man ; and 
you know he cured him. Will you ask him, Ellen ?” 

A smile was almost struggling through Ellen’s tears as she lifted 
her face to that of her friend, but she instantly looked down again. 

“ Shall I put you in mind, Ellen, of some things about Christ 
that ought to make you love him with all your heart?” 

“ Oh, yes, sir ! if you please.” 

11 Then tell me first what it is that makes you love your mother 
so much ?” 

“ Oh, I can’t tell you, sir ; — every thing, I think.” 

“ I suppose the great thing is that she loves you so much ?” 

“ Oh, yes, sir,” said Ellen strongly. 

“ But how do you know that she loves you ? how has she shown 
it?” 

Ellen looked at him, but could give no answer ; it seemed to her 
that she must bring the whole experience of her life before him to 
form one. 

“ I suppose,” said her friend, “ that, to begin with the smallest 
thing, she has always been watchfully careful to provide every 
thing that could be useful or necessary for you : — she never forgot 
your wants, or was careless about them?” 

“ No indeed, sir.” 

“ And perhaps you recollect that she never minded trouble or 
expense or pain where your good was concerned ; — she would sacri- 
fice her own pleasure at any time for yours ?” 

Ellen’s eyes gave a quick and strong answer to this, but she said 
nothing. 

“ And in all your griefs and pleasures you were sure of finding 
her ready and willing to feel with you and for you, and to help you 
if she could ? And in all the times you have seen her tried, no 
fatigue ever wore out her patience, nor any naughtiness of yours 
ever lessened her love ; she could not be weary of waiting upon 
you when you were sick, nor of bearing with you when you forgot 
your duty, — more ready always to receive you than you to return. 
Isn’t it so ?” 

“ Oh, yes, sir.” 

“ And you can recollect a great many words and looks of kind- 
ness and love — many and many endeavours to teach you and lead 
you in the right way — all showing the strongest desire for your 
happiness in this world, and in the next?” 


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“ Oh, yes, sir,” said Ellen tearfully ; and then added, “ do you 
know my mother, sir?” 

“ No,” said he, smiling, “ not at all ; but my own mother has 
been in many things like this to me, and I judged yours might 
have been such to you. Have I described her right?” 

“ Yes indeed, sir,” said Ellen ; — “ exactly.” 

“ And in return for all this, you have given this dear mother the 
love and gratitude of your whole heart, haven’t you?” 

“Indeed I have, sir;” and Ellen’s face said it more than her 
words. 

“You are very right,” he said gravely, “to love such a mother 
— to give her all possible duty and affection ; — she deserves it. 
But, Ellen, in all these very things I have been mentioning, Jesus 
Christ has shown that he deserves it far more. Ho you think, if 
you had never behaved like a child to your mother — if you had 
never made her the least return of love or regard — that she would 
have continued to love you as she does?” 

“No, sir,” said Ellen, — “I do not think she would.” 

“ Have you ever made any fit return to God for his goodness to 
you?” 

“No, sir,” said Ellen, in a low tone. 

“ And yet there has been no change in his kindness. Just look 
at it, and see what he has done and is doing for you. In the first 
place, it is not your mother, but he, who has given you every good 
and pleasant thing you have enjoyed in your whole life. You love 
your mother because she is so careful to provide for all your wants ; 
but who gave her the materials to work with ? she has only been, 
as it were, the hand by which he supplied you. And who gave 
you such a mother ? — there are many mothers notlike her ; — who put 
into her heart the truth and love that have been blessing you ever 
since you were born? It is all — all God’s doing, from first to last; 
but his child has forgotten him in the very gifts of his mercy.” 

Ellen was silent, but looked very grave. 

“ Your mother never minded her own ease or pleasure when 
your good was concerned. Hid Christ mind his? You know what 
he did to save sinners, don’t you?” 

“Yes, sir, I know ; mamma often told me.” 

“ ‘ Though he was rich, yet for our sake he became poor, that we 
through his poverty might be rich.’ He took your burden of sin 
upon himself, and suffered that terrible punishment — all to save 
you, and such as you. And now he asks his children to leave off 
sinning and come back to him who has bought them with his own 
blood. He did this because he loved you ; does he not deserve 
to be loved in return ?” 

Ellen had nothing to say ; she hung down her head further and 
further. 


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73 


“And patient and kind as your mother is, the Lord Jesus is 
kinder and more patient still. In all your life so far, Ellen, you 
have not loved or obeyed him ; and yet he loves you, and is ready 
to be your friend. Is he not even to-day taking away your dear 
mother for the very purpose that he may draw you gently to 
himself and fold you in his arms, as he has promised to do 
with his lambs? He knows you can never be happy anywhere 
else.” 

The gentleman paused again, for he saw that the little listener’s 
mind was full. 

“ Has not Christ shown that he loves you better even than your 
| mother does ? And were there ever sweeter words of kindness 
than these ? — 

“ ‘ Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them 
not ; for of such is the kingdom of heaven.’ 

“ ‘ I am the good shepherd ; the good shepherd giveth his life 
for the sheep.’ 

“ 1 1 have loved thee with an everlasting love ; therefore with 
loving kindness have I drawn thee.’ ” 

He waited a minute, and then added, gently, “ Will you come 
to him, Ellen ?” 

Ellen lifted her tearful eyes to his ; but there were tears there 
too, and her own sank instantly. She covered her face with her 
hands, and sobbed out in broken words, “ Oh, if I could — but I 
don’t know how.” 

“ Do you wish to be his child, Ellen ?” 

“Oh, yes, sir — -if I could.” 

“ I know, my child, that sinful heart of yours is in the way, 

I but the Lord Jesus can change it, and will, if you will give it to 
him. He is looking upon you now, Ellen, with more kindness and 
love than any earthly father or mother could, waiting for you to 
give that little heart of yours to him, that he may make it holy 
and fill it with blessing. He says, you know, 1 Behold I stand at 
the door and knock.’ Do not grieve him away, Ellen.” 

Ellen sobbed, but all the passion and bitterness of her tears was 
gone. Her heart was completely melted. 

“ If your mother were here, and could do for you what you want, 
would you doubt her love to do it ? would you have any difficulty 
in asking her?” 

“ Oh, no !” 

“ Then do not doubt his love who loves you better still. Come 
to Jesus. Do not fancy he is away up in heaven out of reach of 
hearing — he is here, close to you, and knows every wish and throb 
of your heart. Think you are in his presence and at his feet, — 
even now, — and say to him in your heart, £ Lord, look upon me — 
I am not fit to come to thee, but thou hast bid me come — take me 
d 7 


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and make me thine own — take this hard heart that I can do nothing 
with, and make it holy and fill it with thy love — I give it and my- 
self into thy hands, oh, dear Saviour !’ ” 

These words were spoken very low, that only Ellen could catch 
them. Her bowed head sank lower and lower till he ceased speak- 
ing. He added no more for some time ; waited till she had resumed 
her usual attitude and appearance, and then said, — 

“ Ellen, could you join in heart with my words?” 

“I did, sir, — I couldn’t help it, all hut the last.” 

“ All but the last?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“But, Ellen, if you say the first part of my prayer with your 
whole heart, the Lord will enable you to say the last too, — do you 
believe that?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Will you not make that your constant prayer till you are heard 
and answered ?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

And he thought he saw that she was in earnest. 

‘ 1 Perhaps the answer may not come at once, — it does not always ; 
— but it will come as surely as the sun will rise to-morrow morning. 
‘ Then shall we know, if we follow on to know the Lord.’ But then 
you must be in earnest. And if you are in earnest, is there nothing 
you have to do besides praying ?’ ’ 

Ellen looked at him without making any answer. 

“When a person is in earnest, how does he show it?” 

“ By doing every thing he possibly can to get what he wants.” 

“ Quite right,” said her friend, smiling ; — “ and has God bidden 
us to do nothing besides pray for a new heart?” 

“ Oh, yes, sir, — he has told us to do a great many things.” 

“And will he be likely to grant that prayer, Ellen, if he sees 
that you do not care about displeasing him in those ‘ great many 
things?’ — will he judge that you are sincere in wishing for a new 
heart?” 

“ Oh, no, sir.” 

“ Then if you are resolved to be a Christian, you will not be 
contented with praying for a new heart, but you will begin at once 
to be a servant of God. You can do nothing well without help, 
but you are sure the help will come ; and from this good day you 
will seek to know and to do the will of God, trusting in his dear 
Son to perfect that which concern eth you. — My little child,” said 
the gentleman softly and kindly, “ are you ready to say you will 
do this ?” 

As she hesitated, he took a little book from his pocket, and turn- 
ing over the leaves, said, “I am going to leave you for a little 
while — I have a few moments’ business down stairs to attend to ; 


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75 


and I want you to look over this hymn and think carefully of what 
I have been saying, will you? — and resolve what you will do.” 

Ellen got off his knee, where she had been sitting all this while, 
and silently taking the book, sat down in the chair he had quitted. 
Tears ran fast again, and many thoughts passed through her mind, 
as her eyes went over and over the words to which he had pointed • 


“ Behold the Saviour at thy door, 

He gently knocks, — has knock’d before, — 
Has waited long, — is waiting still, — 

You treat no other friend so ill. 

“ Oh, lovely attitude ! — he stands 
With open heart and outstretch’d hands. 
Oh, matchless kindness ! — and he shows 
This matchless kindness to his foes. 

u Admit him — for the human breast 
Ne’er entertain’d so kind a guest. 

Admit him — or the hour’s at hand 
When at his door, denied, you’ll stand. 

u Open my heart, Lord, enter in ; 

Slay every foe, and conquer sin. 

Here now to thee I all resign, — 

My body, soul, and all are thine.” 


The last two lines Ellen longed to say, but could not ; the two 
preceding were the very speech of her heart. 

Not more than fifteen minutes had passed when her friend came 
back again. The book hung in Ellen’s hand ; her eyes were fixed 
on the floor. 

“ Well,” he said kindly, and taking her hand, “ what’s your de- 
cision ?” 

Ellen looked up. 

“ Have you made up your mind on that matter we were talking 
about ?” 

“Yes, sir,” Ellen said in a low voice, casting her eyes down 
again. 

“ And how have you decided, my child?” 

“ I will try to do as you said, sir.” 

“ You will begin to follow your Saviour, and to please him, from 
this day forward ?” 

“ I will try, sir,” said Ellen, meeting his eyes as she spoke. 
Again the look she saw made her burst into tears. She wept 
violently. 

“God bless you and help you, my dear Ellen,” said he, gently 
passing his hand over her head ; — “ but do not cry any more — you 
have shed too many tears this morning already. We will not talk 
about this any more now.” 


76 


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And he spoke only soothing and quieting words for a while to 
her ; and then asked if she would like to go over the boat and see 
the different parts of it. Ellen’s joyful agreement with this pro- 
posal was only qualified by the fear of giving him trouble. But 
he put that entirely by. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Time and the hour run through the roughest day. 

Shakspeare. 

The going over the boat held them a long time, for Ellen’s new 
friend took kind pains to explain to her whatever he thought he 
could make interesting ; he was amused to find how far she pushed 
her inquiries into the how and the why of things. For the time 
her sorrows were almost forgotten. 

“ What shall we do now ?” said he, when they had at last gone 
through the whole ; — “ would you like to go to your friends ?” 

“ I haven’t any friends on board, sir,” said Ellen, with a swelling 
heart. 

“ Haven’t any friends on board ! what do you mean? Are you 
alone ?” 

“ No, sir,” said Ellen, — “ not exactly alone ; my father put me 
in the care of a lady that is going to Thirlwall ; — but they are 
strangers and not friends.” 

“Are they unfriends? I hope you don’t think, Ellen, that 
strangers cannot be friends too ?’ ’ 

“No indeed, sir, I don’t!” said Ellen, looking up with a face 
that was fairly brilliant with its expression of gratitude and love. 
But casting it down again, she added, “ But they are not my 
friends, sir.” 

“ Well then,” he said, smiling, “ will you come with me?” 

“ Oh, yes, sir ! if you will let me, — and if I shan’t be a trouble 
to you, sir.” 

“Come this way,” said he, “and we’ll see if we cannot find a 
nice place to sit down, where no one will trouble us.” 

Such a place was found. And Ellen would have been quite 
satisfied though the gentleman had done no more than merely per- 
mit her to remain there by his side ; but he took out his little 
Bible, and read and talked to her for some time, so pleasantly that 
neither her weariness nor the way could be thought of. 

When he ceased reading to her and began to read to himself, 
weariness and faintness stole over her. She had had nothing to 


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77 


eat, and had been violently excited that day. A little while she 
sat in a dreamy sort of quietude, — then her thoughts grew misty, 
— and the end of it was, she dropped her head against the arm of 
her friend and fell fast asleep. He smiled at first, but one look at 
the very pale little face changed the expression of his own. He 
gently put his arm round her and drew her head to a better resting- 
place than it had chosen. 



And there she slept till the dinner-bell rang. Timmins was sent 
out to look for her, but Timmins did not choose to meddle with the 
grave protector Ellen seemed to have gained ; and Mrs. Dunscombe 
i declared herself rejoiced that any other hands should have taken 
I the charge of her. 

After dinner, Ellen and her friend went up to the promenade 
deck again, and there for a while they paced up and down, enjoying 
the pleasant air and quick motion, and the lovely appearance of 
every thing in the mild hazy sunlight. Another gentleman how- 
ever joining them, and entering into conversation, Ellen silently 
quitted her friend’s hand and went and sat down at the side of the 
boat. After taking a few turns more, and while still engaged in 
talking, he drew his little hymn-book out of his pocket, and with 
a smile put it into Ellen’s hand as he passed. She gladly received 

7 * 


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it, and spent an hour or more very pleasantly in studying and turn- 
ing it over. At the end of that time, the stranger having left him, 
Ellen’s friend came and sat down by her side. 

“ How do you like my little book ?” said he. 

“ Oh, very much indeed, sir.” 

“ Then you love hymns, do you?” 

“ Yes I do, sir, dearly.” 

“ Do you sometimes learn them by heart ?” 

“ Oh, yes, sir, often. Mamma often made me I have learnt 
two since I have been sitting here.” 

“ Have you ?” said he ; — “ which are they ?” 

“ One of them is the one you showed me this morning, sir.” 

“ And what is your mind now about the question I asked you 
this morning?” 

Ellen cast down her eyes from his inquiring glance, and answered 
in a low tone, “ Just what it was then, sir.” 

“ Have you been thinking of it since ?” 

“ I have thought of it the whole time, sir.” 

“ And you are resolved you will obey Christ henceforth ?” 

“ I am resolved to try, sir.” 

“ My dear Ellen, if you are in earnest you will not try in vain. 
He never yet failed any that sincerely sought him. Have you a 
Bible ?” 

“ Oh, yes sir ! a beautiful one ; mamma gave it to me the other 
day.” 

He took the hymn-book from her hand, and turning over the 
leaves, marked several places in pencil. 

“ I am going to give you this,” he said, “ that it may serve to 
remind you of what we have talked of to-day, and of your resolu- 
tion.” 

Ellen flushed high with pleasure. 

“ I have put this mark,” said he, showing her a particular one, 
“ in a few places of this book, for you ; wherever you find it, you 
may know there is something I want you to take special notice 
of. There are some other marks here too, but they are mine : these 
are for you.” 

“ Thank you, sir,” said Ellen, delighted; “ I shall not forget.” 

He knew from her face what she meant ; — not the marks. 

The day wore on, thanks to the unwearied kindness of her friend, 
with great comparative comfort to Ellen. Late in the afternoon 
they were resting from a long walk up and down the deck. 

“ What have you got in this package that you take such care 
of?” said he, smiling. 

“ Oh ! candies,” said Ellen ; “I am always forgetting them. I 
meant to ask you to take some. Will you have some, sir?” 

“ Thank you. What are they ?” 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 79 

“ Almost all kinds, I believe, sir ; I think the almonds are the 
best.” 

He took one. 

“ Pray, take some more, sir,” said Ellen ; — “I don’t care for them 
in the least,” 

“ Then I am more of a child than you, — in this at any rate, — 
for I do care for them. But I have a little headache to-day ; I 
mustn’t meddle with sweets.” 

“Then take some for to-morrow, sir; — please do!” said Ellen, 
dealing them out very freely. 

“Stop, stop!” said he, — “not a bit more; this won’t do, — I 
must put some of these back again; you’ll want them to-morrow 
too.” 

“ I don’t think I shall, ’ said Ellen ; — “ I haven’t wanted to touch 
them to-day.” 

“ Oh, you’ll feel brighter to-morrow, after a night’s sleep. But 
aren’t you afraid of catching cold? This wind is blowing pretty 
fresh, and you’ve been bonnetless all day; — what’s the reason?” 

Ellen looked down, and coloured a good deal. 

“What’s the matter?” said he, laughing; “has any mischief 
befallen your bonnet ?” 

“No, sir,” said Ellen in a low tone, her colour mounting higher 
and higher ; — “ it was laughed at this morning.” 

“Laughed at ! — who laughed at it?” 

“ Mrs. Dunscombe and her daughter, and her maid.” 

“ Bid they ! I don’t see much reason in that, I confess. What 
did they think was the matter with it?” 

“ I don’t know, sir ; — they said it was outlandish, and what a 
figure I looked in it.” 

“ Well, certainly that was not very polite. Put it on and let me 
see.” 

Ellen obeyed. 

“ I am not the best judge of ladies’ bonnets, it is true,” said he, 

“ but I can see nothing about it that is not perfectly proper and 
suitable, — nothing in the world ! So that is what has kept you 
bareheaded all day? Didn’t your mother wish you to wear that 
b ■ et?” 

Yes, sir.” v 

Then that ought to be enough for you. Will you be ashamed 
hat she approved, because some people that haven’t probably 
her sense choose to make merry with it ? — is that right ?” he 
gently. “ Is that honouring her as she deserves ?” 

No, sir,” said Ellen, looking up into his face, “but I never 
* *ht of that before ; — I am sorry.” 

^ever mind being laughed at, my child. If your mother says 
ag is right, that’s enough for you — let them laugh !” 


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u I won’t be ashamed of my bonnet any more,” said Ellen, tying 
it on ; “ but they made me very unhappy about it, and very angry 
too” 

“lam sorry for that,” said her friend, gravely. “ Have you 
quite got over it, Ellen ?” 

“ Oh, yes, sir, — long ago.” 

“ Are you sure ?’ ’ 

“lam not angry now, sir.” 

u Is there no unkindness left toward the people who laughed at 
you?” 

“ I don’t like them much,” said Ellen ; — “ how can I ?” 

“ You cannot of course like the company of ill-behaved people, 
and I do not wish that you should ; but you can and ought to feel 
just as kindly disposed toward them as if they had never offended 
you — just as willing and inclined to please them or do them good. 
Now, could you offer Miss what’s her name ? — some of your candies 
with as hearty good-will as you could before she laughed at you ?” 

“ No, sir, I couldn’t. I don’t feel as if I ever wished to see them 
again.” 

“ Then, my dear Ellen, you have something to do, if you were 
in earnest in the resolve you made this morning. 1 If ye forgive 
unto men their trespasses, my Heavenly Father will also forgive 
you ; but if you forgive not men their trespasses, neither will my 
father forgive your trespasses !” 

He was silent, and so was Ellen, for some time. His words had 
raised a struggle in her mind ; and she kept her face turned toward 
the shore, so that her bonnet shielded it from view ; but she did not 
in the least know what she was looking at. The sun had been some 
time descending through a sky of cloudless splendour, and now was 
just kissing the mountain tops of the western horizon. Slowly and 
with great majesty he sank behind the distant blue line, till only a 
glittering edge appeared, — and then that was gone. There were 
no clouds hanging over his setting, to be gilded and purpled by the 
parting rays, but a region of glory long remained, to show where 
his path had been. 

The eyes of both were fixed upon this beautiful scene, but only 
one was thinking of it. Just as the last glimpse of the sun had 
disappeared Ellen turned her face, bright again, toward her com- 
panion. He was intently gazing toward the hills that had so 
drawn Ellen’s attention a while ago, and thinking still 
intently, it was plain ; so though her mouth had been opt 
speak, she turned her face away again as suddenly as it had 
sought his. He saw the motion, however. 

“ What is it, Ellen ?” he said. 

Ellen looked again with a smile. 

“I have been thinking, sir, of what you said to me.” 


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81 


a Well ?” said lie smiling in answer. 

“ I can’t like Mrs. Dunscombe and Miss Dunscombe as well as 
if they hadn’t done so to me, but I will try to behave as if nothing 
had been the matter, and be as kind and polite to them as if they 
had been kind and polite to me.” 

“And how about the sugar-plums?” 

“ The sugar-plums ! Oh,” said Ellen, laughing, “ Miss Margaret 
may have them all if she likes — I’m quite willing. Not but I had 
rather give them to you, sir.” 

“You give me something a great deal better when I see you 
try to overcome a wrong feeling. You mustn’t rest till you get 
rid of every bit of ill-will that you feel for this and any other un- 
kindness you may suffer. You cannot do it yourself, but you know 
who can help you. I hope you have asked him, Ellen?” 

“ I have, sir, indeed.” 

“ Keep asking him, and he will do every thing for you.” 

A silence of some length followed. Ellen began to feel very 
much the fatigue of this exciting day, and sat quietly by her friend’s 
side, leaning against him. The wind had changed about sundown, 
and now blew light from the south, so that they did not feel it all. 

The light gradually faded away, till only a silver glow in the 
west showed where the sun had set, and the sober grey of twilight 
was gently stealing over all the bright colours of sky, and river, 
and hill ; now and then a twinkling light began to appear along 
the shores. 

“You are very tired,” said Ellen’s friend to her, — “I see you 
are. A little more patience, my child; — we shall be at our jour- 
ney’s end before a very great while.” 

“I am almost sorry,” said Ellen, “though I am tired. We 
don’t go in the steamboat to-morrow ; do we, sir.” 

“No, — in the stage.” 

“ Shall you be in the stage, sir?” 

“ No, my chHd. But I am glad you and I have spent this day 
together.” 

“ Oh, sir !” said Ellen, “ I don’t know what I should have done 
if it hadn’t been for you !” 

There was silence again, and the gentleman almost thought his 
little charge had fallen asleep, she sat so still. But she suddenly 
spoke again, and in a tone of voice that showed sleep was far away. 

“ I wish I knew where mamma is now !” 

“I do not doubt, my child, from what you told me, that it is 
well with her wherever she is. Let that thought comfort you 
whenever you remember her.” 

“She must want me so much,” said poor Ellen, in a scarcely 
audible voice. 

“ She has not lost her best friend, my child.” 


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“ I know it, sir,” said Ellen, with whom grief was now getting 
the mastery, — “ but oh! it’s just near the time when I used to 
make the tea for her — who’ll make it now? she’ll want me, — oh, 
what shall I do!” and overcome completely by this recollection, 
she threw herself into her friend’s arms and sobbed aloud. 

There was no reasoning against this. He did not attempt it ; 
but with the utmost gentleness and tenderness endeavoured, as 
soon as he might, to soothe and calm her. He succeeded at last ; ] 
with a sort of despairing submission, Ellen ceased her tears, and 
arose to her former position. But he did not rest from his kind 
endeavours till her mind was really eased and comforted; which, \ 
however, was not long before the lights of a city began to appear I 
in the distance. And with them appeared a dusky figure ascend- 
ing the stairs, which, upon nearer approach, proved by the voice 1 
to be Timmins. 

“Is this Miss Montgomery?” said she; — “I can’t see, I am 
sure, it’s so dark. Is that you, Miss Montgomery?” 

“ Yes,” said Ellen, “ it is I; do you want me ?” 

“ If you please, miss, Mrs. Dunscombe wants you to come 
right down ; we’re almost in, she says, miss.” 

“I’ll come directly, Miss Timmins,” said Ellen. “ Don’t wait 
for me, — I won’t be a minute, — I’ll come directly.” 

Miss Timmins retired, standing still a good deal in awe of the j 
grave personage whose protection Ellen seemed to have gained. 

“ I must go,” said Ellen, standing up and extending her hand ; — 1 
“ Good-by, sir.” 

She could hardly say it. He drew her toward him and kissed ] 
her cheek once or twice ; it was well he did ; for it sent a thrill of 
pleasure to Ellen’s heart that she did not get over that evening, 1 
nor all the next day. 

“God bless you, my child,” he said, gravely but cheerfully; j 
“ and good-night ! — you will feel better I trust when you have had 
some rest and refreshment.” 

He took care of her down the stairs, and saw her safe to the very 
door of the saloon, and within it; and there again took her hand 
and kindly bade her good-night ! 

Ellen entered the saloon only to sit down and cry as if her heart j 
would break. She saw and heard nothing till Mrs. Dunscombe’s 1 
voice bade her make haste and be ready, for they were going j 
ashore in five minutes. 

And in less than five minutes ashore they went. 

“Which hotel, ma’am?” asked the servant who carried her 
baggage, — “the Eagle, or Foster’s?” 

“ The Eagle,” said Mrs. Dunscombe. 

“ Come this way then ma’am,” said another man, the driver of 
the Eagle carriage, — “Now ma’am, tq . - 


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83 


Mrs. Dunscombe put her daughter in. 

“ But it’s full !” said she to the driver ; “ there isn’t room for 
another one !” 

“ Oh, yes, ma’am, there is,” said the driver, holding the door 
open ; “ there’s plenty of room for you. ma’am, — just get in, ma’am, 
if you please, — we’ll be there in less than two minutes.” 

“Timmins, you’ll have to walk,” said Mrs. Dunscombe. “Miss 
Montgomery, would you rather ride, or walk with Timmins?” 

“ How far is it, ma’am?” said Ellen. 

“ Oh, bless me ! how can I tell how far it is? I don’t know, I 
am sure, — not far; — say quick, — would you rather walk or ride?” 

“I would rather walk, ma’am, if you please,” said Ellen. 

“Very well,” said Mrs. Dunscombe, getting in; — “Timmins, 
you know the way.” 

And off went the coach with its load ; but tired as she was, 
Ellen did not wish herself along. 

Picking a passage-way out of the crowd, she and Timmins now 
began to make their way up one of the comparatively quiet streets. 

It was a strange place — that she felt. She had lived long enough 
in the place she had left to feel at home there ; but here she came 
to no street or crossing that she had ever seen before ; nothing 
looked familiar ; all reminded her that she was a traveller. Only 
one pleasant thing Ellen saw on her walk, and that was the sky ; 
and that looked just as it did at home ; and very often Ellen’s gaze 
was fixed upon it, much to the astonishment of Miss Timmins, who 
had to be not a little watchful for the safety of Ellen’s feet while 
her eyes were thus employed. She had taken a great fancy to 
Ellen, however, and let her do as she pleased, keeping all her won- 
derment to herself. 

“ Take care, Miss Ellen !” cried Timmins, giving her arm a great 
pull, — “ I declare I just saved you out of that gutter ! poor child ! 
you are dreadfully tired, ain’t you?” 

“Yes, I am very tired, Miss Timmins,” said Ellen, “have we 
much further to go?” 

“ Not a great deal, dear ; cheer up ! we are almost there. I hope 
Mrs. Dunscombe will want to ride one of these days herself, and 
can’t.” 

“ Oh, don’t say so, Miss Timmins,” said Ellen, — “I don’t wish 
so, indeed.” 

“Well, I should think you would,” said Timmins, — “I should 
think you’d be fit to poison her ; — I should, I know, if I was in 
your place.” 

“ Oh, no,” said Ellen, “ that wouldn’t be right, — that would be 
very wrong.” 

“Wrong!” said Timmins, — “why would it be wrong' sin 
hasn’t behaved good to you.” 


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“ Yes,” said Ellen, — “ but don’t you know the Bible says if we 
do not forgive people what they do to us, we shall not be forgiven 
ourselves?” 

“Well, I declare!” said Miss Timmins, “you beat all! But 
here’s the Eagle hotel at last, — and I am glad for your sake, dear.” 

Ellen was shown into the ladies’ parlour. She was longing for 
a place to rest, but she saw directly it was not to be there. The 
room was large, and barely furnished ; and round it were scattered 
part of the carriage-load of people that had arrived a quarter of 
an hour before her. They were waiting till their rooms should be 
ready. Ellen silently found herself a chair and sat down to wait 
with the rest, as patiently as she might. Few of them had as 
much cause for impatience; but she was the only perfectly mute 
and uncomplaining one there. Her two companions however 
between them, fully made up her share of fretting. At length, a 
servant brought the welcome news that their room was ready, and 
the three marched up stairs. It made Ellen’s very heart glad 
when they got there, to find a good-sized, cheerful-looking bed- 
room, comfortably furnished, with a bright fire burning, large 
curtains let down to the floor, and a nice warm carpet upon it. 
Taking off her bonnet, and only that, she sat down on a low 
cushion by the corner of the fireplace, and leaning her head against 
the jamb fell fast asleep almost immediately. Mrs. Dunscombe 
set about arranging herself for the tea-table. 

“Well!” she said, — “one day of this precious journey is 
over!” 

“ Does Ellen go with us to-morrow, mamma ?” 

“Oh, yes! — quite to Thirlwall.” 

“ Well, you haven’t had much plague with her to-day, mamma.” 

“ No — I am sure I am much obliged to whoever has kept her 
out of my way.” 

“ Where is she going to sleep to-night?” asked Miss Margaret. 

“ I don’t know, I am sure. — I suppose I shall have to have a cot 
brought in here for her.” 

“What a plague!” said Miss Margaret. “ It will lumber up ' 
the room so ! There’s no place to put it. Couldn’t she sleep with 
Timmins?” 

“Oh, she could, of course — just as well as not, only people 
would make such a fuss about it ; — it wouldn’t do ; we must bear i 
it for once. I’ll try and not be caught in such a scrape again.” 

“ How provoking !” said Miss Margaret; “how came father to 
do so without asking you about it?” 

“ Oh, he was bewitched, I suppose, — men always are. Look 
her. Margaret, — I can’t go down to tea with a train of children 
; heels, — I shall leave you and Ellen up here, and I’ll send 

up your tea to you.” 


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85 


“Oh, no, mamma!” said Margaret eagerly; “I want to go 
down with you. Look here, mamma! she’s asleep and you needn’t 
wake her up — that’s excuse enough; you can leave her to have 
her tea up here, and let me go down with you.” 

“ Well,” said Mrs. Dunscombe, — “ I don’t care — but make haste 
to get ready, for I expect every minute when the tea-bell will ring.” 

“Timmins! Timmins!” cried Margaret, — “come here and fix 
me — quick! — and step softly, will you? — or you’ll wake that 
young one up, and then, you see, I shall have to stay up stairs.” 

This did not happen however. Ellen’s sleep was much too 
deep to be easily disturbed. The tea-bell itself, loud and shrill as 
it was, did not even make her eyelids tremble. After Mrs. and 
Miss Dunscombe were gone down, Timmins employed herself a 
little while in putting all things about the room to rights ; and 
then sat down to take her rest, dividing her attention between the 
fire and Ellen, toward whom she seemed to feel more and more 
kindness, as she saw that she was likely to receive it from no one 
else. Presently came a knock at the door ; — “ The tea for the 
young lady,” on a waiter. Miss Timmins silently took the tray 
from the man and shut the door. “ Well !” said she to herself, — 
“ if that ain’t a pretty supper to send up to a child that has gone 
two hundred miles to-day, and had no breakfast ! — a cup of tea, 
cold enough I’ll warrant, — bread and butter enough for a bird, — 
and two little slices of ham as thick as a wafer ! — well, I just wish 
Mrs. Dunscombe had to eat it herself, and nothing else ! — I’m not 
going to wake her up for that, I know, till I see whether some- 
thing better ain’t to be had for love or money. So just you 
sleep on, darling, till I see what I can do for you.” 

In great indignation, down stairs went Miss Timmins ; and at 
the foot of the stairs she met a rosy-cheeked, pleasant-faced girl 
coming up. 

“ Are you the chambermaid?” said Timmins. 

“I’m one of the chambermaids,” said the girl smiling ; “ there’s 
three of us in this house, dear.” 

“ Well, I am a stranger here,” said Timmins, “ but I want you 
to help me, and I am sure you will. I’ve got a dear little girl up 
stairs that I want some supper for — she’s a sweet child, and she’s 
under the care of some proud folks here in the tea-room that think 
it’s too much trouble to look at her ; and they’ve sent her up about 
supper enough for a mouse, — and she’s half starving 
breakfast this morning by their ugliness. Now ask one • i .-i waiters 
to give me something nice for her, will you ? — there’s a g<: od girl 

“ James !” — said the girl in a loud whisper to one of the alters 
who was crossing the hall. He instantly stopped and 
them, tray in hand, and making several extra polite bo lie ! 
near. 


8 


86 


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“ What’s on the supper-table, James?” said the smiling damsel. 

“ Every thing that ought to be there, Miss Johns,” said the mar>, 
with another flourish. 

“ Come, stop your nonsense,” said the girl, “and tell me quick 
— I’m in a hurry.” 

“ It’s a pleasure to perform your commands, Miss Johns. I’ll 
give you the whole bill of fare. There’s a very fine beef-steak, 
fricasseed chickens, stewed oysters, sliced ham, cheese, preserved 
quinces, — with the usual complement of bread and toast and muffins, 
and doughnuts, and new-year cake, and plenty of butter, — likewise 
salt and pepper, — likewise tea and coffee, and sugar, — likewise, — ” 

“ Hush !” said the girl. “ Do stop, will you ?” — and then laugh- 
ing and turning to Miss Timmins, she added, “ What will you 
have ?” 

“I guess I’ll have some of the chickens and oysters,” said 
Timmins ; “ that will be the nicest for her, — and a muffin or two.” 

“Now, James, do you hear?” said the chambermaid; “I want 
you to get me now, right away, a nice little supper of chickens and 
oysters and a muffin — it’s for a lady up stairs. Be as quick as 
you can.” 

“ I should be very happy to execute impossibilities for you, Miss 
Johns, but Mrs. Custers is at the table herself.” 

“ Very well — that’s nothing — she’ll think it’s for somebody up 
stairs — and so it is.” 

“ Ay, but the up-stairs people is Tim’s business — I should be 
hauled over the coals directly.” 

“Then ask Tim, will you? How slow you are! Now, James, I 
if you don’t, I won’t speak to you again.” 

“ Till to-morrow ? — I couldn’t stand that. It shall be done, Miss ! 
Johns, instantum.” 

Bowing and smiling, away went Janies, leaving the girls giggling j 
on the staircase and highly gratified. 

“ He always does what I want him to,” said the good-humoured 
chambermaid, “ but he generally makes a fuss about it first. He’ll 
be back directly with what you want.” 

Till he came, Miss Timmins filled up the time with telling her 
new friend as much as she knew about Ellen and Ellen’s hardships ; j 
with which Miss Johns was so much interested that she declared 
she must go up and see her ; and when James in a few minutes j 
returned with a tray of nice things, the two women proceeded ! 
together to Mrs. Dunscombe’s room. Ellen had moved so far as to ! 
put herself on the floor with her head on the cushion for a pillow, 
but she was as sound asleep as ever. 

“ «7u now!” said Timmins; “there she lies on the floor — 
enough to ive her her death of cold ; poor child, she’s tired to : 
i ah ; and VIrs. Dunscombe made her walk up from the steamboat 


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to-night rather than do it herself ; — I declare I wished the coach 
would break down, only for the other folks. I am glad I have got 
a good supper for her though, — thank you, Miss Johns.” 

“ And I’ll tell you what, I’ll go and get you some nice hot tea,” 
said the chambermaid, who was quite touched by the sight of 
Ellen’s little pale face. 

“ Thank you,” said Timmins, — “ you’re a darling. This is as 
cold as a stone.” 

While the chambermaid went forth on her kind errand, Timmins 
stooped down by the little sleeper’s side. “ Miss Ellen!” she 
said ; — “ Miss Ellen ! — wake up, dear — wake up and get some sup- 
per — come! you’ll feel a great deal better for it — you shall sleep 
as much as you like afterwards.” 

Slowly Ellen raised herself and opened her eyes. “ Where am 
I?” she asked, looking bewildered. 

“ Here, dear,” said Timmins ; — “ wake up and eat something — 
it will do you good.” 

With a sigh, poor Ellen arose and came to the fire. “You’re 
tired to death, ain’t you ?” said Timmins. 

“Not quite,” said Ellen. “I shouldn’t mind that if my legs 
would not ache so — and my head, too.” 

“ Now I’m sorry !” said Timmins; “ but your head will be bet- 
ter for eating, I know. See here — I’ve got you some nice chicken 
and oysters, — and I’ll make this muffin hot for you by the fire; 
and here comes your tea. Miss Johns, I’m your servant, and I’ll 
be your bridesmaid with the greatest pleasure in life. Now, Miss 
Ellen, dear, just you put yourself on that low chair, and I’ll fix 
you off.” 

Ellen thanked her, and did as she was told. Timmins brought 
another chair to her side, and placed the tray with her supper upon 
it, and prepared her muffin and tea ; and having fairly seen Ellen 
begin to eat, she next took off her shoes, and seating herself on 
the carpet before her, she made her lap the resting place for Ellen’s 
feet, chafing them in her hands and heating them at the fire, say- 
ing there was nothing like rubbing and roasting to get rid of the 
leg-ache. By the help of the supper, the fire, and Timmins, Ellen 
mended rapidly. With tears in her eyes, she thanked the latter 
for her kindness. 

“Now just don’t say one word about that,” said Timmins ; “ I 
never was famous for kindness, as I know ; but people must be kind 
sometimes in their lives, — unless they happen to be made of stone, 
which I believe some people are. You feel better, don’t you?” 

“A great deal,” said Ellen. “Oh, if I only could go to bed, 
now !” 

“ And you shall,” said Timmins. “ I know about your bed, and 
I’ll go right away and have it brought in.” And away she went. 


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While she was gone, Ellen drew from her pocket her little hymn- 
book, to refresh herself with looking at it. How quickly and 
freshly it brought back to her mind the friend who had given it, 
and his conversations with her, and the resolve she had made ; and 
again Ellen’s whole heart offered the prayer she had repeated many 
times that day, — 

“ Open my heart, Lord, enter in ; 

Slay every foe, and conquer sin.” 


Her head was still bent upon her little book when Timmins en- 
tered. Timmins was not alone ; Miss Johns and a little cot bed- 
stead came in with her. The latter was put at the foot of Mrs. 
Dunscombe’s bed, and speedily made up by the chambermaid, while 
Timmins undressed Ellen ; and very soon all the sorrows and vex- 
ations of the day were forgotten in a sound, refreshing sleep. But 
not till she had removed her little hymn-book from the pocket of 
her frock to a safe station under her pillow ; it was with her hand 
upon it that Ellen went to sleep ; and it was in her hand still when 
she was waked the next morning. 

The next day was spent in a wearisome stage-coach, over a rough, 
jolting road. Ellen’s companions did nothing to make her way 
pleasant, but she sweetened theirs with her sugar-plums. Some- 
what mollified, perhaps, after that, Miss Margaret condescended to 
enter into conversation with her, and Ellen underwent a thorough 
cross-examination as to all her own and her parents’ affairs, past, 
present, and future, and likewise as to all that could be known of her 
yesterday’s friend, till she was heartily worried, and out of patience. 

It was just five o’clock when they reached her stopping-place. 
Ellen knew of no particular house to go to ; so Mrs. Dunscombe 
set her down at the door of the principal inn of the town, called 
the “Star” of Thirl wall. 

The driver smacked his whip, and away went the stage again, 
and she was left standing alone beside her trunk before the piazza 
of the inn, watching Timmins, who was looking back at her out 
of the stage window, nodding and waving good by. 


CHAPTER IX. 


Gadshill. — Sirrah, carrier, what time do you mean to come to London ? 

2d Carrier . — Time enough to go to bed with a candle, I warrant thee. 

King Henry IV. 

Ellen had been whirled along over the roads for so many hours, 
— the rattle of the stage-coach had filled her ears for so long, — that 

e felt half stunned. She stood 


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with a kind of dreamy feeling, looking after the departing stage- 
coach. In it there were three people whose faces she knew, and 
she could not count a fourth within many a mile. One of those 
was a friend, too, as the fluttering handkerchief of poor Miss Tim- 
mins gave token still. Yet Ellen did not wish herself back in the 
coach, although she continued to stand and gaze after it as it rattled 
off- at a great rate down the little street, its huge body lumbering 
up and down every now and then, reminding her Of sundry un- 
comfortable jolts ; till the horses making a sudden turn to the right, 
it disappeared round a corner. Still for a minute Ellen watched 
the whirling cloud of dust it had left behind ; but then the feeling 
of strangeness and loneliness came over her, and her heart sank. 
She cast a look up and down the street. The afternoon was lovely ; 
the slant Jbeams of the setting sun came back from gilded windows, 
and the houses and chimney-tops of the little town were in a glow ; 
but she saw nothing bright anywhere ; — in all the glory of the setting 
sun the little town looked strange and miserable. There was no 
sign of her having been expected ; nobody was waiting to meet her. 
What was to be done next ? Ellen had not the slightest idea. 

Her heart growing fainter and fainter, she turned again to the 
inn. A tall, awkward young countryman, with a cap set on one 
side of his head, was busying himself with sweeping off the floor 
of the piazza, but in a very leisurely manner ; and between every 
two strokes of his broom he was casting long looks at Ellen, evi- 
dently wondering who she was and what she could want there. 
Ellen saw it, and hoped he would ask her in words, for she could 
not answer his looks of curiosity, — but she was disappointed. As 
he reached the end of the piazza and gave his broom two or three 
knocks against the edge of the boards to clear it of dust, he in- 
dulged himself with one good long finishing look at Ellen, and then 
she saw he was going to take himself and his broom into the house. 
So in despair she ran up the two or three low steps of the piazza 
and presented herself before him. He stopped short. 

“Will you please to tell me, sir,” said poor Ellen, “if Miss 
Emerson is here ?” 

“ Miss Emerson?” said he, — “ what Miss Emerson?” 

“I don’t know, sir, — Miss Emerson that lives not far from 
Thirl wall.” 

Eying Ellen from head to foot, the man then trailed his broom 
into the house. Ellen followed him. 

“Mr. Forbes!” said he, “ Mr. Forbes! do you know any thing 
of Miss Emerson ?” 

“ What Miss Emerson ?” said another man, with a big red face 
and a big round body, showing himself in a doorway which he 
nearly filled. 

“ Miss Emerson that lives a little way out of town.” 

8 * 


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“ Miss Fortune Emerson ? yes, I know her. What of her?” 

“ Has she been here to-day?” 

“ Here ? what, in town ? No — not as I’ve seen or heerd. Why, 
who wants her?” 

“ This little girl.” 

And the man with the broom stepping back, disclosed Ellen to 
the view of the red-faced landlord. He advanced a step or two 
toward her. 

“ What do you want with Miss Fortune, little one ?” said he. 

“ I expected she would meet me here, sir,” said Ellen. 

“ Where have you come from ?” 

“From New York.” 

“ The stage set her down just now,” put in the other man. 

“And you thought Miss Fortune would meet you, did .you?” 

“ Yes, sir; she was to meet me and take me home.” 

“ Take you home ! Are you going to Miss Fortune’s home ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Why, you don’t belong to her any way, do you?” 

“ No, sir,” said Ellen, “ but she’s my aunt.” 

“ She’s your what?” 

“ My aunt, sir, — my father’s sister.” 

“Your father’s sister! You ben’t the daughter of Morgan 
Montgomery, be you?” 

“ Yes, I am,” said Ellen, half smiling. 

“ And you are come to make a visit to Miss Fortune, eh ?” 

“ Yes,” said Ellen, smiling no longer. 

“And Miss Fortune ha’ n’t come up to meet you; — that’s real 
shabby of her ; and how to get you down, there to-night, I am sure 
is more than I can tell.” — And he shouted, “ Wife !” 

“ What’s the matter, Mr. Forbes?” said a fat landlady, appear- 
ing in the doorway, which she filled near as well as her h.usband 
would have done. 

“Look here,” said Mr. Forbes, “here’s Morgan Montgomery’s 
daughter come to pay a visit to her aunt, Fortune Emerson. Don’t 
you think she’ll be glad to see her?” 

Mr. Forbes put this question with rather a curious look at his 
wife. She didn’t answer him. She only looked at Ellen, looked 
grave, and gave a queer little nod of her head, which meant, Ellen 
could not make out what. 

“Now, what’s to be done?” continued Mr. Forbes. “Miss 
Fortune was to have come up to meet her, but she ain’t here, and 
I don’t know how in the world I can take the child down there to- 
night. The horses are both out to plough, you know ; and besides, 
the tire is come off that wagon wheel. I couldn’t possibly use it. 
And then it’s a great question in my mind what Miss Fortune 
wo? id say to me. I should get paid, I s’pose?” 


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“Yes, you’d get paid,” said his wife, with another little shake 
of her head ; “ but whether it would be the kind of pay you’d like, 
I don’t know.” 

“Well, what’s to be done, wife? Keep the child over-night, 
and send word down yonder ?” 

“No,” said Mrs. Forbes, “I’ll tell you. I think I saw Van 
Brunt go by two or three hours ago with the ox-cart, and I guess 
he’s somewhere up town yet ; I ha’n’t seen him go back. He can 
take the child home with him. Sam !” shouted Mrs. Forbes, — 
“ Sam !— here ! — Sam, run up street directly, and see if you see Mr. 
Van Brunt’s ox-cart standing anywhere — I dare say he’s at Mr. 
Miller’s, or maybe at Mr. Hammersley’s, the blacksmith — and ask 
him to stop here before he goes home. Now hurry ! — and don’t 
run over him and then come back and tell me he ain’t in town.” 

Mrs. Forbes herself followed Sam to the door, and cast an ex- 
ploring look in every direction. 

“ I don’t see no signs of him, — up nor down,” said she, returning 
to Ellen ; “ but I’m pretty sure he ain’t gone home. Come in here 
— come in here, dear, and make yourself comfortable ; it’ll be a 
while yet maybe ’afore Mr. Van Brunt comes, but he’ll be along 
by and by ; — come in here and rest yourself.” 

She opened a door, and Ellen followed her into a large kitchen, 
where a fire was burning that showed wood must be plenty in those 
regions. Mrs. Forbes placed a low chair for her on the hearth, but 
herself remained standing by the side of the fire, looking earnestly 
and with a good deal of interest upon the little stranger. Ellen 
drew her white bonnet from her head, and sitting down with a 
wearied air, gazed sadly into the flames that were shedding their 
light upon her. 

“ Are you going to stop a good while with Miss Fortune?” said 
Mrs. Forbes. 

“I don’t know, ma’am, — yes, I believe so,” said Ellen faintly. 

“ Ha’n’t you got no mother?” asked Mrs. Forbes suddenly, after 
a pause. 

“Oh, yes!” said Ellen, looking up. But the question had 
touched the sore spot. Her head sank on her hands, and “ Oh, 
mamma!” was uttered with a bitterness that even Mrs. Forbes 
could feel. 

“Now what made me ask you that !” said she. “ Don’t cry ! — 
don’t, love; poor little dear! you’re as pale as a sheet; you’re 
tired, I know — ain’t you? Now cheer up, do, — I can’t bear to see 
you cry. You’ve come a great ways to-day, ha’n’t you?” 

Ellen nodded her head, but could give no answer. 

“ I know what will do you good,” said Mrs. Forbes presently, 
getting up from the crouching posture she had taken to comfort 
Ellen; “you want something to eat, — that’s the matter. I’ll 


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warrant you’re half starved ; — no wonder you feel bad. Poor little 
thing ! you shall have something good directly.” 

And away she bustled to get it. Left alone, Ellen’s tears flowed 
a few minutes very fast. She felt forlorn ; and she was besides, as 
Mrs. Forbes opined, both tired and faint. But she did not wish to 
be found weeping ; she checked her tears, and was sitting again 
quietly before the fire when the landlady returned. 

Mrs. Forbes had a great bowl of milk in one hand, and a plate 
of bread in the other, which she placed on the kitchen table, and 
setting a chair, called Ellen to come and partake of it. 

“ Come, dear, — here is something that will do you good. I thought 
there was a piece of pie in the buttery, and so there was, but Mr. 
Forbes must have got hold of it, for it ain’t there now ; and there 
ain’t a bit of cake in the house for you ; but I thought maybe you 
would like this as well as any thing. Come !” 

Ellen thanked her, but said she did not want any thing. 

“ Oh, yes, you do,” said Mrs. Forbes ; “I know better. You’re 
as pale as I don’t know what. Come! this’ll put roses in your 
cheeks. Don’t you like bread and milk?” 

“Yes, very much indeed, ma’am,” said Ellen, “but Pm not 
hungry.” She rose, however, and came to the table. 

“Oh, well, try to eat a bit just to please me. It’s real good 
country milk — not a bit of cream off. You don’t get such milk as 
that in the city, I guess. That’s right! — I see the roses coming 
back to your cheeks already. Is your pa in New York now ?” 

“ Yes, ma’am.” 

“You expect your pa and ma up to Thirl wall by and by, don’t 
you ?’ ’ 

“No, ma’am.” 

Mrs. Forbes was surprised, and longed to ask why not, and what 
Ellen had come for ; but the shade that had passed over her face 
as she answered the last question warned the landlady she was 
getting upon dangerous ground. 

“ Does your aunt expect you to-night?’ 

“ I believe so, ma’am, — I don’t know, — she was to have met me ; 
papa said he would write.” 

“ Oh, well ! maybe something hindered her from coming. It’s 
no matter; you’ll get home just as well. Mr. Van Brunt will be 
here soon, I guess ; it’s most time for him to be along.” 

She went to the front door to look out for him, but returned with- 
out any news. A few minutes passed in silence, for though full of 
curiosity, the good landlady dared not ask what she wanted to know, 
for fear of again exciting the sorrow of her little companion. She 
contented herself with looking at Ellen, who on her part, much 
rested and refreshed, had turned from the table and was again, 
though somewhat less sadly, gaxing into the fire. 


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Presently the great wooden clock struck half-past five, with a 
whirring, rickety voice, for all the world like a hoarse grasshopper. 
Ellen at first wondered where it came from, and was looking at 
the clumsy machine that reached nearly from the floor of the 
kitchen to the ceiling, when a door at the other end of the room 
opened, and “Good-day, Mrs. Forbes,” in a rough but not un- 
pleasant voice, brought her head quickly round in that direction. 
There stood a large, strong-built man, with an ox-w T hip in his 
hand. He was well-made and rather handsome, but there was 
something of heaviness in the air of both face and person mixed 
with his certainly good-humoured expression. His dress was as 
rough as his voice — a coarse grey frock-coat, green velveteen 
pantaloons, and a fur cap that had seen its best days some time 
ago. 

“Good-day, Mrs. Forbes,” said this personage; “Sam said you 
wanted me to stop as I went along.” 

“ Ah, how d’ye do, Mr. Van Brunt?” said the landlady, rising; 
“ you’ve got the ox-cart here with you, ha’ n’t you?” 

“ Yes, I’ve got the ox-cart,” said the person addressed. “ I came 
in town for a barrel of flour, and then the near ox had lost both 
his fore shoes off, and I had to go over there, and Hammersley has 
kept me a precious long time. What’s wanting, Mrs. Forbes? I 
can’t stop.” 

“ You’ve no load in the cart, have you ?” said the landlady. 

“ No ; I should have had though, but Miller had no shorts nor 
fresh flour, nor won’t till next week. What’s to go down, 'Mrs. 
Forbes ?” 

“The nicest load ever you carried, Mr. Van Brunt. Here’s a 
little lady come to stay with Miss Fortune. She’s a daughter of 
Captain Montgomery, Miss Fortune’s brother, you know. She 
came by the stage a little while ago, and the thing is now to get 
her down to-night. She can go in the cart, can’t she?” 

Mr. Van Brunt looked a little doubtful, and pulling off his cap 
with one hand, while he scratched his head with the other, he ex- 
amined Ellen from head to foot ; much as if she had been some 
great bale of goods, and he were considering whether his cart 
would hold her or not. 

“Well,” said he at length, — “ I don’t know but she can; but 
there ain’t nothing on ’arth for her to sit down upon.” 

“Oh, never mind; I’ll fix that,” said Mrs. Forbes. “Is there 
any straw in the bottom of the cart?” 

“ Not a bit.” 

“Well, I’ll fix it,” said Mrs. Forbes. “You get her trunk into 
the cart, will you, Mr. Van Brunt? and I’ll see to the rest.” 

Mr. Van Brunt moved off without another word to do what was 
desired of him, — apparently quite confounded at having a passen- 


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ger instead of his more wonted load of bags and barrels. And 
his face still continued to wear the singular doubtful expression it 
had put on at first hearing the news. Ellen’s trunk was quickly 
hoisted in, however ; and Mrs. Forbes presently appeared with a 
little arm-chair, which Mr. Van Brunt with an approving look be- 
stowed in the cart, planting it with its back against the trunk to 
keep it steady. Mrs. Forbes then raising herself on tiptoe by the 
side of the cart, took a view of the arrangements. 

“ That won’t do yet,” said she ; “ her feet will be cold on that 
bare floor, and ’tain’t over clean neither. Here, Sally ! run up and 
fetch me that piece of carpet you’ll find lying at the top of the 
back stairs. Now, hurry! — Now, Mr. Van Brunt, I depend upon 
you to get my things back again ; will you see and bring ’em the 
first time you come in town ?” 

“I’ll see about it. But what if I can’t get hold of them?” 
answered the person addressed, with a half smile. 

“Oh,” said Mrs. Forbes, with another, “I leave that to you; 
you have your ways and means. Now, just spread this carpet 
down nicely under her chair ; and then she’ll be fixed. Now, my 
darling, you’ll ride like a queen. But how are you going to get 
in? Will you let Mr. Van Brunt lift you up?” 

Ellen’s “ Oh, no, ma’am, if you please !” was accompanied with 
such an evident shrinking from the proposal, that Mrs. Forbes 
did not press it. A chair was brought from the kitchen, and by 
making a long step from it to the top of the wheel, and then to 
the edge of the cart, Ellen was at length safely stowed in her place. 
Kind Mrs. Forbes then stretched herself up over the side of the 
cart to shake hands with her and bid her good-by, telling her again 
she would ride like a queen. Ellen answered only “ Good-by, 
ma’am;” but it was said with a look of so much sweetness, and 
eyes swimming half in sadness and half in gratefulness, that the 
good landlady could not forget it. 

“I do ‘think,” said she, when she went back to her husband, 
“ that is the dearest little thing, about, I ever did see.” 

“Humph!” said her husband, “I reckon Miss Fortune will 
think so too.” 

The doubtful look came back to Mrs. Forbes’ face, and with 
another little grave shake of her head, she went into the kitchen. 

“How kind she is! how good every body is to me,” thought 
little Ellen, as she moved off in state in her chariot drawn by 
oxen. Quite a contrast this new way of travelling was to the noisy 
stage and swift steamer. Ellen did not know at first whether to 
like or dislike it ; but she came to the conclusion that it was very 
funny, and a remarkably amusing way of getting along. There 
was one disadvantage about it certainly, — their rate of travel 
was very slow. Ellen wondered her charioteer did not make his 


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animals go faster ; but she soon forgot their lazy progress in the 
interest of novel sights and new scenes. 

Slowly, very slowly, the good oxen drew the cart and the little 
queen in the arm-chair out of the town, and they entered upon the 
open country. The sun had already gone down when they left 
the inn, and the glow of his setting had faded a good deal by the 
time they got quite out of the town ; but light enough was left 
still to delight Ellen with the pleasant look of the country. It 
was a lovely evening, and quiet as summer ; not a breath stirring. 
The leaves were all off the trees ; the hills were brown ; but the 
soft warm light that still lingered upon them forbade any look of 
harshness or dreariness. These hills lay toward the west, and at 



Thirlwall were not more than two miles distant, but sloping off 
more to the west as the range extended in a southerly direction. 
Between, the ground was beautifully broken. Rich fields and 
meadows lay on all sides, sometimes level, and sometimes with a 
soft wavy surface, where Ellen thought it must be charming to 
run up and down. Every now and then these were varied by a 
little rising ground capped with a piece of woodland ; and beauti- 
ful trees, many of them, were seen standing alone, especially by 
the road-side. All had a cheerful, pleasant look. The houses 
were very scattered ; in the whole way they passed but few. 
Ellen’s heart regularly began to beat when they came in sight of 
one, and “I wonder if that is aunt Fortune’s house !” — “perhaps 


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it is !” — or, “ I hope it is not !” were the thoughts that rose in her 
mind. But slowly the oxen brought her abreast of the houses, 
one after another, and slowly they passed on beyond, and there 
was no sign of getting home yet. Their way was through pleas- 
ant lanes toward the south, but constantly approaching the hills. 
About half a mile from Thirlwall, they crossed a little river, not 
more than thirty yards broad, and after that the twilight deepened 
fast. The shades gathered on field and hill: every thing grew 
brown, and then dusky ; and then Ellen was obliged to content 
herself with what was very near, for further than that she could 
only see dim outlines. She began again to think of their slow trav- 
elling, and to wonder that Mr. Van Brunt could be content with 
it. She wondered too what made him walk, when he might just 
as well have sat in the cart ; the truth was he had chosen that for 
the very purpose that he might have a good look at the little queen 
in the arm-chair. Apparently, however, he too now thought it 
might be as well to make a little haste, for he thundered out some 
orders to his oxen, accompanied with two or three strokes of his 
heavy lash, which, though not cruel by any means, went to Ellen’s 
heart. 

“ Them lazy critters won’t go fast anyhow,” said he to Ellen, — 
“ they will take their own time ; it ain’t no use to cut them.” 

“ Oh, no ! pray don’t, if you please !” said Ellen, in a voice of 
earnest entreaty. 

“’Tain’t fair neither,” continued Mr. Yan Brunt, lashing his 
great whip from side to side without touching any thing. “ I have 
seen critters that would take any quantity of whipping to make 
them go, but them ’ere ain’t of that kind ; they’ll work as long as 
they can stand, poor fellows !” 

There was a little silence, during which Ellen eyed her rough 
charioteer, not knowing exactly what to make of him. 

“ I guess this is the first time you ever rid in an ox-cart, ain’t 
it?” 

“ Yes,” said Ellen ; “ I never saw one before.” 

“Ha’ n’t you never seen an ox-cart! Well — how do you like 
it?” 

“ 1 like it very much indeed. Have we much farther to go be- 
fore we get to aunt Fortune’s house?” 

“ ‘ Aunt Fortune’s house !’ a pretty good bit yet. You see that 
mountain over there ?” — pointing with his whip to a hill directly 
west of them, and about a mile distant. 

“ Yes,” said Ellen. 

“ That’s the Nose. Then you see that other?” — pointing to one 
that lay some two miles further south ; — “ Miss Fortune’s house is 
just this side of that; it’s all of two miles from here.” 

And urged by this recollection, he again scolded and cheered the 


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patient oxen, who for the most part kept on their steady way with- 
out any reminder. But perhaps it was for Ellen’s sake that he 
scarcely touched them with the whip. 

“ That don’t hurt them, not a bit,” he remarked to Ellen, — “it 
only lets them know that I’m here, and they must mind their busi- 
ness. So you’re Miss Fortune’s niece, eh?” 

“ Yes,” said Ellen. 

“ Well,” said Mr. Van Brunt, with a desperate attempt at being 
complimentary, “ I shouldn’t care if you was mine too.” 

Ellen was somewhat astounded, and so utterly unable to echo 
the wish, that she said nothing. She did not know it, but Mr. Van 
Brunt had made, for him, most extraordinary efforts at sociability. 
Having quite exhausted himself, he now mounted into the cart 
and sat silent, only now and then uttering energetic “ Gee’s !” and 
“Haw’s!” which greatly excited Ellen’s wonderment. She dis- 
covered they were meant for the ears of the oxen, but more than 
that she could not make out. 

They plodded along very slowly, and the evening fell fast. As 
they left behind the hill which Mr. Van Brunt had called “the 
Nose,” they could see, through an opening in the mountains, a bit 
of the western horizon, and some brightness still lingering there ; 
but it was soon hid from view, and darkness veiled the whole 
country. Ellen could amuse herself no longer with looking about ; 
she could see nothing very clearly but the outline of Mr. Van 
Brunt’s broad back, just before her. But the stars had come out ! 
— and, brilliant and clear, they were looking down upon her with 
their thousand eyes. Ellen’s heart jumped when she saw them 
with a mixed feeling of pleasure and sadness. They carried her 
right back to the last evening when she Was walking up the hill 
with Timmins ; she remembered her anger against Mrs. Duns- 
combe, and her kind friend’s warning not to indulge it, and all his 
teaching that day ; and tears came with the thought, how glad she 
should be to hear him speak to her again. Still looking up at the 
beautiful quiet stars, she thought of her dear far-off mother, — how 
long it was already since she had seen her ; — faster and faster the 
tears dropped ; — and then she thought of that glorious One who 
had made the stars, and was above them all, and who could and 
did see her mother and her, though ever so far apart, and could 
hear and bless them both. The little face was no longer upturned 
— it was buried in her hands, and bowed to her lap, and tears 
streamed as she prayed that God would bless her dear mother and 
take care of her. Not once nor twice ; — the fulness of Ellen’s 
heart could not be poured out in one asking. Greatly comforted 
at last, at having as it were laid over the care of her mother upon 
One who was able, she thought of herself, and her late resolution 
to serve him. She was in the same mind still. She could not call 

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herself a Christian yet, but she was resolved to be one ; and she 
earnestly asked the Saviour she sought, to make her and keep her 
his child. And then Ellen felt happy. 

Quiet, and weariness, and even drowsiness succeeded. It was 
well the night was still, for it had grown quite cool, and a breeze 
would have gone through and through Ellen’s nankeen coat. As 
it was she began to be chilly, when Mr. Van Brunt, who since he 
got into the cart had made no remarks except to his oxen, turned 
round a little and spoke to her again. 

“ It’s only a little bit of way we’ve got to go now,” said he; 
“ we’re turning the corner.” 

The words seemed to shoot through Ellen’s heart. She was 
wide awake instantly, and quite warm ; and leaning forward in her 
little chair, she strove to pierce the darkness on either hand of her, 
to see whereabouts the house stood, and how things looked. She 
could discern nothing but misty shadows, and outlines of she could 
not tell what, the starlight was too dim to reveal any thing to a 
stranger. 

“ There’s the house,” said Mr. Yan Brunt, after a few minutes 
more, — “ do you see it yonder?” 

Ellen strained her eyes, but could make out nothing, — not even 
a glimpse of white. She sat back in her chair, her heart beating 
violently. Presently Mr. Yan Brunt jumped down and opened a 
gate at the side of the road and with a great deal of “ gee”-ing 
the oxen turned to the right, and drew the cart a little way up hill, 
then stopped on what seemed level ground. 

“ Here we are !” cried Mr. Yan Brunt, as he threw his whip on 
the ground, — “ and late enough ! You must be tired of that little 
arm-cheer by this time. Come to the side of the cart and I’ll lift 
you down.” 

Poor Ellen ! There was no help for it. She came to the side 
of the cart, and taking her in his arms her rough charioteer set 
her very gently and carefully on the ground. 

“ There !” said he, “ now you can run right in ; do you see that 
little gate?” 

“No,” said Ellen, “ I can’t see any thing.” 

“ Well, come here,” said he, “ and I’ll show you. Here — you’re 
running agin the fence — this way 1” 

And he opened a little wicket, which Ellen managed to stumble 
through. 

“Now,” said he, “go straight up to that door yonder, and open 
it, and you’ll see where to go. Don’t knock, but just pull the 
latch and go in.” 

And he went olf to his oxen. Ellen at first saw no door, and 
did not even know where to look for it ; by degrees, as her head 
became clearer, the large dark shadow of the house stood before 


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her, and a little glimmering line of a path seemed to lead onward 
from where she stood. With unsteady steps, Ellen pursued it till 
her foot struck against the stone before the door. Her trembling 
fingers found the latch — lifted it — and she entered. All was dark 
there ; but at the right a window showed light glimmering within. 
Ellen made toward it, and groping, came to another door-latch. 
This was big and clumsy ; however, she managed it, and pushing 
open the heavy door, went in. 

It was a good-sized, cheerful-looking kitchen. A fine fire was 
burning in the enormous fireplace ; the white walls and ceiling 
were yellow in the light of the flame. No candles were needed, 
and none were there. The supper table was set, and with its snow- 
white table-cloth and shining furniture, looked very comfortable 
indeed. But the only person there was an old woman, sitting by 
the side of the fire, with her back toward Ellen. She seemed to 
be knitting, but did not move nor look round. Ellen had come a 
step or two into the room, and there she stood, unable to speak or 
to go any farther. “ Can that be aunt Fortune ?” she thought ; 
“ she can’t be as old as that?” 

In another minute a door opened at her right, just behind the 
old woman’s back, and a second figure appeared at the top of a 
flight of stairs which led down from the kitchen. She came in, 
shutting the door behind her with her foot ; and indeed both hands 
Were full, one holding a lamp and a knife, and the other a plate of 
butter. The sight of Ellen stopped her short. 

“What is this? — and what do you leave the door open for, 
child?” she said. 

She advanced toward it, plate and lamp in hand, and setting her 
back against the door, shut it vigorously. 

“ Who are you? — and what’s wanting?” 

“I am Ellen Montgomery, ma’am,” said Ellen, timidly. 

“ What?" said the lady, with some emphasis 

“Didn’t you expect me, ma’am?” said Ellen; “papa said he 
would write.” 

“ Why, is this Ellen Montgomery ?’ ’ said Miss Fortune, ap- 
parently forced to the conclusion that it must be. 

“ Yes, ma’am,” said Ellen. 

Miss Fortune went to the table and put the butter and the lamp 
in their places. 

“ Did you say your father wrote to tell me of your coming?” 

“He said he would, ma’am,” said Ellen. 

“ He didn’t ! Never sent me a line. Just like him ! I never 
yet knew Morgan Montgomery do a thing when he promised he 
would.” 

Ellen’s face flushed, and her heart swelled. She stood motion- 
less. • 


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“ How did you get down here to-night?” 

“ I came in Mr. Van Brunt’s ox-cart,” said Ellen. 

“Mr. Van Brunt’s ox-cart! Then he’s got home, has he?” 
And hearing this instant a noise outside, Miss Fortune swept to 
the door, saying, as she opened it, “ Sit down, child, and take off 
your things.” 

The first command, at least, Ellen obeyed gladly ; she did not 
feel enough at home to comply with the second. She only took 
off her bonnet. 

“ Well, Mr. Van Brunt,” said Miss Fortune at the door, “have 
you brought me a barrel of flour?” 

“No, Miss Fortune,” said the voice of Ellen’s charioteer, “I’ve 
brought you something better than that.” 

“Where did you find her?” said Miss Fortune, something 
shortly. 

“ Up at Forbes’s.” 

“ What have you got there ?” 

“ A trunk. Where is it to go ?” 

“ A trunk ! Bless me ! it must go up stairs ; but how it is ever 
to get there, I am sure I don’t know.” 

“ I’ll find a way to get it there, I’ll engage, if you’ll be so good 
as to open the door for me, ma’am.” 

“Indeed you won’t! That’ll never do! With your shoes!” 
said Miss Fortune, in a tone of indignant house wifery. 

“ Well — without my shoes, then,” said Mr. Van Brunt, with a 
half giggle, as Ellen heard the shoes kicked off. “Now, ma’am, 
out of my way ! give me a road.” 

Miss Fortune seized the lamp, and opening another door, 
ushered Mr. Van Brunt and the trunk out of the kitchen, and up, 
Ellen saw not whither. In a minute or two they returned, and he 
of the ox-cart went out. 

“ Supper’s just ready, Mr. Van Brunt,” said the mistress of the 
house. 

“ Can’t stay, ma’am ; — it’s so late ; must hurry home.” And he 
closed the door behind him. 

“ What made you so late?” asked Miss Fortune of Ellen. 

“ I don’t know, ma’am — I believe Mr. Van Brunt said the 
blacksmith had kept him.” 

Miss Fortune bustled about a few minutes in silence, setting 
some things on the table and filling the tea-pot. 

“ Come,” she said to Ellen, “ take off your coat and come to the 
table. You must be hungry by this time. It’s a good while since 
you had your dinner, ain’t it? Come, mother.” 

The old lady rose, and Miss Fortune, taking her chair, set it by 
the side of the table next the fire. Ellen was opposite to her, and 
now for the first time, the. plc{ lady seemed to know that she was in 


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the room. She looked at her very attentively, but with an ex- 
pressionless gaze which Ellen did not like to meet, though other- 
wise her face was calm and pleasant. 

“Who is that?” inquired the old lady presently of Miss For- 
tune, in a half whisper. 

“That’s Morgan’s daughter,” was the answer. 

11 Morgan’s daughter ! Has Morgan a daughter ?” 

“ Why, yes, mother ; don’t you remember I told you a month 
ago he was going to send her here?” 

The old lady turned again with a half shake of her head toward 
Ellen. “Morgan’s daughter,” she repeated to herself softly, 
“she’s a pretty little girl, — very pretty. Will you come round 
here and give me a kiss, dear ?” 

Ellen submitted. The old lady folded her in her arms and 
kissed her affectionately. “ That’s your grandmother, Ellen,” said 
Miss Fortune, as Ellen went back to her seat. 

Ellen had no words to answer. Her aunt saw her weary, down 
look, and soon after supper proposed to take her up stairs. Ellen 
gladly followed her. Miss Fortune showed her to her room, and 
first asking if she wanted any thing, left her to herself. It was a 
relief. Ellen’s heart had been brimful and ready to run over for 
some time, but the tears could not come then. They did not now, 
till she had undressed and laid her weary little body on the bed ; 
then they broke forth in an agony. “ She did not kiss me ! she 
didn’t say she was glad to see me !” thought poor Ellen. But 
weariness this time was too much for sorrow and disappointment. 
It was but a few minutes, and Ellen’s brow was calm again, and 
her eyelids still, and with the tears wet upon her cheeks, she was 
fast asleep. 


CHAPTER X. 

Nimble mischance, that com’st so swift of foot ! 

Shakspeare. 

The morning sun was shining full and strong in Ellen’s eyes 
when she awoke. Bewildered at the strangeness of every thing 
around her, she raised herself on her elbow, and took a long look 
at her new home. It could not help but seem cheerful. The 
bright beams of sunlight streaming in through the windows lighted 
on the wall and the old wainscoting, and paintless and rough as 
they were, nature’s own gilding more than made amends for their 
want of comeliness. Still Ellen was not much pleased with the 
result of her survey. The room was good-sized, and perfectly neat 

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and clean ; it had two large windows opening to the east, through 
which, morning by morning, the sun looked in — that was another 
blessing. But the floor was without the sign of a carpet, and the 
bare boards looked to Ellen very comfortless. The hard-finished 
walls were not very smooth nor particularly white. The doors and 
wood-work, though very neat, and even carved with some attempt 
at ornament, had never known the touch of paint, and had grown 
in the course of years to be of a light-brown colour. The room 
was very bare of furniture too. A dressing-table, pier-table, or 
whatnot, stood between the windows, but it was only a half-circular 
top of pine board set upon three very long, bare-looking legs — 
altogether of a most awkward and unhappy appearance, Ellen 
thought, and quite too high for her to use with any comfort. No 
glass hung over it, nor anywhere else. On the north side of the 
room was a fireplace ; against the opposite wall stood Ellen’s trunk 
and two chairs ; — that was all, except the cot bed she was lying 
on, and which had its place opposite the windows. The coverlid 
of that came in for a share of her displeasure, being of home- 
made white and blue worsted mixed with cotton, exceeding thick 
and heavy. 

“I wonder what sort of a blanket is under it,” said Ellen, “ if 
I can ever get it off to see ! — pretty good ; but the sheets are cot- 
ton, and so is the pillow-case !” 

She was still leaning on her elbow, looking around her with a 
rather discontented face, when some door being opened down stairs, 
a great noise of hissing and sputtering came to her ears, and pres- 
ently after there stole to her nostrils a steaming odour of something 
very savoury from the kitchen. It said as plainly as any dressing- 
bell that she had better get up. So up she jumped, and set about 
the business of dressing with great alacrity. "Where was the dis- 
tress of last night? Gone — with the darkness. She had slept 
well ; the bracing atmosphere had restored strength and spirits ; 
and the bright morning light made it impossible to be dull or down- 
hearted, in spite of the new cause she thought she had found. She 
went on quick with the business of the toilet ; but when it came 
to the washing, she suddenly discovered that there were no con- 
veniences for it in her room — no sign of pitcher or basin, or stand 
to hold them. Ellen was slightly dismayed ; but presently recol- 
lected her arrival had not been looked for so soon, and probably 
the preparations for it had not been completed. So she finished 
dressing, and then set out to find her way to the kitchen. On 
opening the door, there was a little landing-place from which the 
stairs descended just in front of her, and at the left hand another 
door, which she supposed must lead to her aunt’s room. At the 
foot of the stairs Ellen found herself in a large square room or 
hall, for one of its doors, on the east, opened to the outer air, and 


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was in fact the front door of the house. Another Ellen tried on 
the south side ; it would not open. A third, under the stairs, ad- 
mitted her to the kitchen. 

The noise of hissing and sputtering now became quite violent, 
and the smell of the cooking, to Ellen’s fancy, rather too strong to 
be pleasant. Before a good fire stood Miss Fortune, holding the 
end of a very long iron handle by which she was kept in commu- 
nication with a flat vessel sitting on the fire, in which Ellen soon 
discovered all this noisy and odorous cooking was going on. A tall 
tin coffee-pot stood on some coals in the corner of the fireplace, and 
another little iron vessel in front also claimed a share of Miss For- 
tune’s attention, for she every now and then leaned forward to give 
a stir to whatever was in it, making each time quite a spasmodic 
effort to do so without quitting her hold of the end of the long 
handle. Ellen drew near and looked on with great curiosity, and 
not a little appetite ; but Miss Fortune was far too busy to give her 
more than a passing glance. At length the hissing pan was brought 
to the hearth for some new arrangement of its contents, and Ellen 
seized the moment of peace and quiet to say, “Good-morning, 
aunt Fortune.” 

Miss Fortune was crouching by the pan turning her slices of 
pork. “How do you do this morning?” she answered, without 
looking up. 

Ellen replied she felt a great deal better. 

“ Slept warm, did you ?” said Miss Fortune, as she set the pan 
back on the fire. And Ellen could hardly answer. “ Quite warm, 
ma’am,” when the hissing and sputtering began again as loud 
as ever. 

“I must wait,” thought Ellen, “till this is over before I say 
what I want to. I can’t scream out to ask for a basin and towel.” 

In a few minutes the pan was removed from the fire, and Miss 
Fortune went on to take out the brown slices of nicely-fried pork 
and arrange them in a deep dish, leaving a small quantity of clear 
fat in the pan. Ellen, who was greatly interested, and observing 
every step most attentively, settled in her own mind that certainly 
this would be thrown away, being fit for nothing but the pigs. 
But Miss Fortune didn’t think so, for she darted into some pantry 
close by, and returning with a cup of cream in her hand emptied 
it all into the pork fat. Then she ran into the pantry again for a 
little round tin box, with a cover full of holes, and shaking this 
gently over the pan, a fine white shower of flour fell upon the 
cream. The pan was then replaced on the fire and stirred ; and to 
Ellen’s astonishment the whole changed, as if by magic, to a 
thick, stiff, white froth. It was not till Miss Fortune was care- 
fully pouring this over the fried slices in the dish, that Ellen sud- 
denly recollected that breakfast was ready, and she was not. 


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“Aunt Fortune,” she said timidly, “I haven’t washed yet, — 
there’s no basin in my room.” 

Miss Fortune made no answer nor gave any sign of hearing; she 
went on dishing up breakfast. Ellen waited a few minutes. 

“Will you please, ma’am, to show me where I can wash myself.” 



“ Yes,” said Miss Fortune, suddenly standing erect, you’ll have 
to go down to the spout.” 

“ The spout, ma’am,” said Ellen,— “ what’s that?” 

“ You 11 know it when you see it, I guess,” answered her aunt, 


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again stooping over her preparations. But in another moment she 
arose and said, “Just open that door there behind you, and go 
down the stairs and out at the door, and you’ll see where it is, and 
what it is too.” 

Ellen still lingered. “ Would you be so good as to give me a 
towel, ma’am,” she said timidly. 

Miss Fortune dashed past her and out of another door, whence 
she presently returned with a clean towel which she threw over 
Ellen’s arm, and then went back to her work. 

Opening the door by which she had first seen her aunt enter the 
night before, Ellen went down a steep flight of steps, and found 
herself in a lower kitchen, intended for common purposes. It 
seemed not to be used at all, at least there was no fire there, and a 
cellar-like feeling and smell instead. That was no wonder, for be- 
yond the fireplace on the left hand was the opening to the cellar, 
which running under the other part of the house, was on a level 
with this kitchen. It had no furniture but a table and two chairs. 
The thick heavy door stood open. Passing out, Ellen looked 
around her for water, — in what shape or form it was to present 
itself she had no very clear idea. She soon spied, a few yards 
distant a little stream of water pouring from the end of a pipe or 
trough raised about a foot and a half from the ground, and a well- 
worn path leading to it, left no doubt of its being “ the spout.” 
But when she had reached it Ellen was in no small puzzle as to 
how she should manage. The water was clear and bright, and 
poured very fast into a shallow wooden trough underneath, whence 
it ran off into the meadow and disappeared. 

“ But what shall I do without a basin,” thought Ellen, “ I can’t 
catch any water in my hands, it runs too fast. If I only could 
get my face under there — that would be fine !” 

Very carefully and cautiously she tried it, but the continual 
spattering of the water had made the board on which she stood so 
slippery that before her face could reach the stream she came very 
near tumbling headlong, and so taking more of a cold bath than she 
wished for. So she contented herself with the drops her hands 
could bring to her face, — a scanty supply ; but those drops were 
deliciously cold and fresh. And afterwards she pleased herself with 
holding her hands in the running water, till they were red with the 
cold. On the whole Ellen enjoyed her washing very much. The 
morning air came playing about her ; its cool breath was on her 
cheek with health in its touch. The early sun was shining on tree 
and meadow and hill ; the long shadows stretched over the grass, 
and the very brown outhouses, looked bright. She thought it was 
the loveliest place she ever had seen. And that sparkling trickling 
water was certainly the purest and sweetest she had ever tasted. 
Where could it come from ? It poured from a small trough made 


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of the split trunk of a tree with a little groove or channel two inches 
wide hollowed out in it. Butattheendof one of these troughs, another 
lapped on, and another at the end of that, and how many there 
were Ellen could not see, nor where the beginning of them was. 
Ellen stood gazing and wondering, drinking in the fresh air, hope 
and spirits rising every minute, when she suddenly recollected 
breakfast ! She hurried in. As she expected, her aunt was at the 
table ; but to her surprise, and not at all to her gratification, there 
was Mr. Yan Brunt at the other end of it, eating away, very much 
at home indeed. In silent dismay Ellen drew her chair to the side 
of the table. 

“ Bid you find the spout?” asked. Miss Fortune. 

“ Yes, ma’am.” 

“ Well, how do you like it?” 

“ Oh, I like it very much indeed,” said Ellen. u I think it is 
beautiful.” 

Miss Fortune’s face rather softened at this, and she gave Ellen 
an abundant supply of all that was on the table. Her journey, the 
bracing air, and her cool morning wash, altogether, had made Ellen 
very sharp, and she did justice to the breakfast. She thought 
never was coffee so good as this country coffee ; nor any thing so 
excellent as the brown bread and butter, both as sweet as bread and 
butter could be ; neither was any cookery so entirely satisfactory as 
Miss Fortune’s fried pork and potatoes. Yet her tea-spoon was not 
silver ; her knife could not boast of being either sharp or bright ; 
and her fork was certainly made for any thing else in the world but 
comfort and convenience, being of only two prongs, and those so 
far apart that Ellen had no small difficulty to carry the potato safely 
from her plate to her mouth. It mattered nothing ; she was now 
looking on the bright side of things, and all this only made her 
breakfast taste the sweeter. 

Ellen rose from the table when she had finished, and stood a few 
minutes thoughtfully by the fire. 

“Aunt Fortune,” she said at length timidly, “if you’ve no 
objection, I should like to go and take a good look all about.” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Miss Fortune, “ go where you like; I’ll give 
you a week to do what you please with yourself.” 

“ Thank you, ma’am,” said Ellen, as she ran off for her bonnet; 
“ a week’s a long time. I suppose,” thought she, “I shall goto 
school at the end of that.” 

Beturning quickly with her white bonnet, Ellen opened the heavy 
kitchen door by which she had entered last night, and went out. 
She found herself in a kind of long shed. It had very rough walls 
and floor, and overhead showed the brown beams and rafters ; two 
little windows and a door were on the side. All manner of rubbish 
lay there, especially at the farther end. There was scattered about 


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and piled up various boxes, boards, farming and garden tools, old 
pieces of rope and sheepskin, old iron, a cheese-press, and what not. 
Ellen did not stay long to look, but went out to find something 
pleasanter. A few yards from the shed door was the little gate 
through which she had stumbled in the dark, and outside of that 
Ellen stood still a while. It was a fair, pleasant day, and the 
country scene she looked upon was very pretty. Ellen thought so. 
Before her, at a little distance, rose the great gable end of the barn, 
and a long row of outhouses stretched away from it toward the left. 
The ground was strewn thick with chips ; and the reason was not 
hard to find, for a little way off, under an old stunted apple-tree, lay 
a huge log, well chipped on the upper surface, with the axe resting 
against it ; and close by were some sticks of wood both chopped 
and unchopped. To the right the ground descended gently to a 
beautiful plane meadow, skirted on the hither side by a row of fine 
apple-trees. The smooth green flat tempted Ellen to a run, but first 
she looked to the left. There was the garden, she guessed, for 
there was a paling fence which enclosed a pretty large piece of 
ground ; and between the garden and the house a green slope ran 
down to the spout. That reminded her that she intended making 
a journey of discovery up the course of the long trough. No time 
could be better than now, and she ran down the slope. 

The trough was supported at some height from the ground by 
little heaps of stones placed here and there along its whole course. 
Not far from the spout it crossed a fence. Ellen must cross it too 
to gain her object, and how that could be done was a great ques- 
tion ; she resolved to try, however. But first she played awhile 
with the water, which had great charms for her. She dammed up 
the little channel with her fingers, forcing the water to flow over 
the side of the trough ; there was something very pleasant in stop- 
ping the supply of the spout, and seeing the water trickling over 
where it had no business to go ; and she did not heed that some 
of the drops took her frock in their way. She stooped her lips to 
the trough and drank of its sweet current, — only for fun’s sake, 
for she was not thirsty. Finally she set out to follow the stream 
up to its head. But poor Ellen had not gone more than half way 
toward the fence when she all at once plunged into the mire. The 
green grass growing there had looked fair enough, but there was 
running water and black mud under the green grass, she found to 
her sorrow. Her shoes, her stockings, were full. What was to be 
done, now? The journey of discovery must be given up. She 
forgot to think about where the water came from, in the more 
pressing question, “ What will aunt Fortune say ?” — and the quick 
wish came that she had her mother to go to. However, she got 
out of the slough, and wiping her shoes as well as she could on the 
grass, she hastened back to the house. 

O ' 


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The kitchen was all put in order, the hearth swept, the irons at 
the fire, and Miss Fortune just pinning her ironing blanket on the 
table. “ Well, — what’s the matter?” she said, when she saw 
Ellen’s face; but as her glance reached the floor, her brow dark- 
ened. “ Mercy on me !” she exclaimed, with slow emphasis, — 
“ what on earth have you been about? where have you been ?” 

Ellen explained. 

“ Well, you have made a figure of yourself! Sit down!” said 
her aunt, shortly, as she thrust a chair down on the hearth before 
the fire; “I should have thought you’d have wit enough at your 
age to keep out of the ditch.” 

“ I didn’t see any ditch,” said Ellen. 

“No, I suppose not,” said Miss Fortune, who was energetically 
twitching off Ellen’s shoes and stockings with her fore finger and 
thumb ; “ I suppose not ! you were staring up at the moon or stars, 
I suppose.” 

“ It all looked green and smooth,” said poor Ellen ; “ one part 
just like another; and the first thing I knew I was up to my 
ankles.” 

“What were you there at all for?” said Miss Fortune, shortly 
enough. 

“I couldn’t see where the water came from, and I wanted to 
find out.” 

“ Well you’ve found out enough for one day I hope. Just look 
at those stockings ! Ha’n’t you got never a pair of coloured stock- 
ings, that you must go poking into the mud with white ones ?’ ’ 

“ No, ma’am.” 

“Do you mean to say you never wore any but white ones at 
home ?” 

“ Yes, ma’am ; I never had any others.” 

Miss Fortune’s thoughts seemed too much for speech, from the 
way in which she jumped up and went off without saying any 
thing more. She presently came back with an old pair of grey 
socks, which she bade Ellen put on as soon as her feet were dry. 

“ How many of those white stockings have you?” she said. 

“ Mamma bought me half a dozen pair of new ones just before 
I came away, and I had as many as that of old ones besides.” 

“ Well, now go up to your trunk and bring ’em all down to me 
— every pair of white stockings you have got. There’s a pair of 
old slippers you can put on till your shoes are dry,” she said, fling- 
ing them to her ; — “ They arn’t much too big for you.” 

“ They’re not much too big for the socks — they’re a great deal too 
big for me,” thought Ellen. But she said nothing. She gathered 
all her stockings together and brought them down stairs, as her 
aunt had bidden her. 

“ Now you may run out to the barn, to Mr. Van Brunt, — you’ll 


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find him there, — and tell him I want him to bring me some white 
maple bark, when he comes home to dinner, — white maple bark, 
do you hear?” 

Away went Ellen, but in a few minutes came back. “ I can’t 
get in,” she said. 

“ What’s the matter ?” 

“ Those great doors are shut, and I can’t open them. I knocked, 
but nobody came.” 

“ Knock at a barn door !” said Miss Fortune. “ You must go in 
at the little cowhouse door, at the left, and go round. He’s in the 
lower barn-floor.” 

The barn stood lower than the level of the chip-yard, from 
which a little bridge led to the great doorway of the second floor. 
Passing down the range of outhouses, Ellen came to the little door 
her aunt had spoken of. “ But what in the world should I do if 
there should be cows inside there?” said she to herself. She 
peeped in ; — the cowhouse was perfectly empty ; and cautiously, 
and with many a fearful glance to the right and left, lest some 
terrible horned animal should present itself, Ellen made her way 
across the cowhouse, and through the barn-yard, littered thick with 
straw wet and dry, to the lower barn-floor. The door of this stood 
wide open. Ellen looked with wonder and pleasure when she got 
in. It was an immense room — the sides showed nothing but hay 
up to the ceiling, except here and there an enormous upright post ; 
the floor was perfectly clean, only a few locks of hay and grains 
of wheat scattered upon it ; and a pleasant sweet smell was there, 
Ellen could not tell of what. But no Mr. Van Brunt. She 
looked about for him, she dragged her disagreeable slippers back 
and forth over the floor, in vain. 

“ Hilloa ! what’s wanting?” at length cried a rough voice she 
remembered very well. But where was the speaker? On every 
side, to every corner, her eyes turned without finding him. She 
looked up at last. There was the round face of Mr. Yan Brunt 
peering down at her through a large opening or trap-door, in the 
upper floor. 

“ Well !” said he, “ have you come out here to help me thrash 
wheat !” 

Ellen told him what she had come for. 

“White maple bark, — well,” — said he, in his slow way, “I’ll 
bring it. I wonder what’s in the wind now.” 

So Ellen wondered, as she slowly went back to the house ; and 
yet more, when her aunt set her to tacking her stockings together 
by two and two. 

“ What are you going to do with them, aunt Fortune?” she at 
last ventured to say. 

“ You’ll see, — when the time comes.” 

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“Mayn’t I keep out one pair?” said Ellen, who had a vague 
notion that by some mysterious means her stockings were to be 
prevented from ever looking white any more. 

“ No ; — -just do as I tell you.” 

Mr. Van Brunt came at dinner-time with the white maple bark. 
It was thrown forthwith into a brass kettle of water which Miss 
Fortune had already hung over the fire. Ellen felt sure this had 
something to do with her stockings, but she could ask no 
questions ; and as soon as dinner was over she went up to her 
room. It didn’t look pleasant now. The brown wood-work and 
rough dingy walls had lost their gilding. The sunshine was out 
of it; and what was more, the sunshine was out of Ellen’s heart 
too. She went to the window and opened it, but there was 
nothing to keep it open ; it slid down again as soon as she let it go. 
Baffled and sad, she stood leaning her elbows on the window-sill, 
looking out on the grass-plat that lay before the door, and the little 
gate that opened on the lane, and the smooth meadow, and rich 
broken country beyond. It was a very fair and pleasant scene in 
the soft sunlight of the last of October ; but the charm of it was 
gone for Ellen ; it was dreary. She looked without caring to 
look, or knowing what she was looking at ; she felt the tears rising 
to her eyes ; and sick of the window, turned away. Her eye fell 
on her trunk ; her next thought was of her desk inside of it ; and 
suddenly her heart sprang ; — “ I will write to mamma!” No sooner 
said than done. The trunk was quickly open, and hasty hands 
pulled out one thing after another till the desk was reached. 

“ But what shall I do?” thought she, — “ there isn’t a sign of a 
table. Oh, what a place ! I’ll shut my trunk and put it on that. 
But here are all these things to put back first.” 

They were eagerly stowed away ; and then kneeling by the side 
of the trunk, with loving hands Ellen opened her desk. A sheet 
of paper was drawn from her store, and properly placed before her ; 
the pen dipped in the ink, and at first with a hurried, then with a 
trembling hand, she wrote, “ My dear Mamma.” But Ellen’s 
heart had been swelling and swelling, with every letter of those 
three words, and scarcely was the last “ a” finished, when the pen 
was dashed down, and flinging away from the desk, she threw her- 
self on the floor in a passion of grief. It seemed as if she had 
her mother again in her arms, and was clinging with a death-grasp 
not to be parted from her. And then the feeling that she was 
parted ! — As much bitter sorrow as a little heart can know was in 
poor Ellen’s now. In her childish despair she wished she could 
die, and almost thought she should. After a time, however, though 
not a short time, she rose from the floor and went to her writing 
again; her heart a little eased by weeping, yet the tears kept 
! coming all the time, and she could not quite keep her paper from 


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Ill 


being blotted. The first sheet was spoiled before she was aware ; 
she took another. 

“ My Dearest Mamma, 

“ It makes me so glad and so sorry to write to you, that I don’t 
know what to do. I want to see you so much, mamma, that it 
seems to me sometimes as if my heart would break. Oh, mamma, 
if I could just kiss you once more, I would, give any thing in the 
whole world. I can’t be happy as long as you are away, and I am 
afraid I can’t be good either ; but I will try. Oh, I will try, 
mamma. I have so much to say to you that I don’t know where 
to begin. I am sure my paper will never hold it all. You will 
want to know about my journey. The first day was on the steam- 
boat, you know. I should have had a dreadful time that day, 
mamma, but for something I’ll tell you about. I was sitting up on 
the upper deck, thinking about you, and feeling very badly indeed, 
when a gentleman came and spoke to me, and asked me what was 
the matter. Mamma, I can’t tell you how kind he was to me. He 
kept me with him the whole day. He took me all over the boat, 
and showed me all about a great many things, and he talked to me 
a great deal. Oh, mamma, how he talked to me. He read in the 
Bible to me, and explained it, and he tried to make me a Christian. 
And oh, mamma, when he was talking to me, how I wanted to do 
as he said, and I resolved I would. I did, mamma, and I have not 
forgotten it. I will try indeed, but I am afraid it will be very 
hard without you or him, or any body else to help me. You 
couldn’t have been kinder yourself, mamma ; he kissed me at night 
when I bid him good-by, and I was very sorry indeed. I wish I 
could see him again. Mamma, I will always love that gentleman 
if I never see him again in the world. I wish there was some- 
body here that I could love, but there is not. You will want to 
know what sort of a person my aunt Fortune is. I think she is 
very good looking, or she would be if her nose was not quite so 
sharp : but, mamma, I can’t tell you what sort of a feeling I have 
about her; it seems to me as if she was sharp all over. I am sure 
her eyes are as sharp as two needles. And she don’t walk like 
other people ; at least sometimes. She makes queer little jerks 
and starts and jumps, and flies about like I don’t know what. I 
am afraid it is not right for me to write so about her ; but may I not 
tell you, mamma? There’s nobody else for me to talk to. I can’t 
like aunt Fortune much yet, and I am sure she don’t like me ; but 
I will try to make her. I have not forgotten what you said to me 
about that. Oh, dear mamma, I will try to mind every thing you 
ever said to me in your life. I am afraid you won’t like what I 
have written about aunt Fortune ; but indeed I have done nothing 
to displease her, and I will try not to. If you were only here, 


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mamma, I should say it was the loveliest place I ever saw in my 
life. Perhaps, after all, I shall feel better, and be quite happy by 
and by ; but, oh, mamma, how glad I shall be when I get a letter 
from you. I shall begin to look for it soon, and I think I shall go 
out of my wits with joy when it comes. I had the funniest ride 
down here from Thirlwall that you can think ; how do you guess I 
came ? In a cart drawn by oxen. They went so slow we were an 
age getting here ; but I liked it very much. There was a good- 
natured man driving the oxen, and he was kind to me ; but, 
mamma, what do you think ? he eats at the table. I know what 
you would tell me ; you would say I must not mind trifles. Well, 
I will try not, mamma. Oh, darling mother, I can’t think much 
of any thing but you. I think of you the whole time. Who 
makes tea for you now ? Are you better ? Are you going to 
leave New York soon? It seems dreadfully long since I saw you. 
I am tired, dear mamma, and cold ; and it is getting dark. I must 
stop. I have a good big room to myself ; that is a good thing. I 
should not like to sleep with aunt Fortune. Good-night, dear 
mamma. I wish I could sleep with you once more. Oh, when 
will that be again, mamma? Good- night. Good-night. 

“Your affectionate Ellen.” 

The letter finished was carefully folded, enclosed, and directed ; 
and then with an odd mixture of pleasure and sadness, Ellen lit 
one of her little wax matches, as she called them, and sealed it 
very nicely. She looked at it fondly a minute when all was done, 
thinking of the dear fingers that would hold and open it ; her next 
movement was to sink her face in her hands, and pray most 
earnestly for a blessing upon her mother, and help for herself, — 
poor Ellen felt she needed it. She was afraid of lingering lest tea 
should be ready ; so, locking up her letter, she went down stairs. 

The tea was ready. Miss Fortune and Mr. Van Brunt were at 
the table, and so was the old lady, whom Ellen had not seen before 
that day. She quietly drew up her chair to its place. 

“ Well,” said Miss Fortune, “ I hope you feel better for your 
long stay up stairs.” 

“ I do, ma’am,” said Ellen ; “ a great deal better.” 

“ What have you been about ?”• 

“ I have been writing, ma’am.” 

“ Writing what ?” 

“ I have been writing to mamma.” 

Perhaps Miss Fortune heard the trembling of Ellen’s voice, or 
her sharp glance saw the lip quiver and eyelid droop. Something 
softened her. She spoke in a different tone ; asked Ellen if her 
tea was good ; took care she had plenty of the bread and butter, 
and excellent cheese, which was on the table ; and lastly cut her a 


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large piece of the pumpkin pie. Mr. Van Brunt too looked once 
or twice at Ellen’s face as if he thought all was not right there. 
He was not so sharp as Miss Fortune, but the swollen eyes and 
tear-stains were not quite lost upon him. 

After tea, when Mr. Van Brunt was gone, and the tea-things 
cleared away, Ellen had the pleasure of finding out the mystery 
of the brass kettle and the white maple bark. The kettle now 
stood in the chimney corner. Miss Fortune, seating herself before 
it, threw in all Ellen’s stockings except one pair, which she flung 
over to her, saying, “ There — I don’t care if you keep that one.” 
Then, tucking up her sleeves to the elbows, she fished up pair 
after pair out of the kettle, and wringing them out hung them on 
chairs to dry. But, as Ellen had opined, they were no longer 
white, but of a fine slate colour. She looked on in silence, too 
much vexed to ask questions. 

“Well, how do you like that?” said Miss Fortune at length, 
when she had got two or three chairs round the fire pretty well 
hung with a display of slate-coloured cotten legs. 

“I don’t like it at all,” said Ellen. 

“Well, I do. How many pair of white stockings would you 
like to drive into the mud and let me wash out every week?” 

“ You wash!” said Ellen in surprise; “I didn’t think of your 
doing it.” 

“ Who did you think was going to do it? There’s nothing in 
this house but goes through my hand, I can tell you, and so must 
you. I suppose you’ve lived all your life among people that 
thought a great deal of wetting their little finger; but I’m not 
one of ’em, I guess you’ll find.” 

Ellen was convinced of that already. 

“ Well, what are you thinking of?” said Miss Fortune presently. 

“I’m thinking of my nice white darning-cotton,” said Ellen. 
“ I might just as well not have had it.” 

“ Is it wound or in the skein?” % 

“In the skein.” 

“ Then just go right up and get it. I’ll warrant I’ll fix it so that 
you’ll have a use for it.” 

Ellen obeyed, but musing rather uncomfortably what else there 
was of hers that Miss Fortune could lay hands on. She seemed 
in imagination to see all her white things turning brown. She 
resolved she would keep her trunk well locked up ; but what if her 
keys should be called for ? 

She was dismissed to her room soon after the dyeing business was 
completed. It was rather a disagreeable surprise to find her bed 
still unmade ; and she did not at all like the notion that the making 
of it in future must depend entirely upon herself; Ellen had no 
fancv for such handiwork. She went to sleep in somewhat the 
h 10* 


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same dissatisfied mood with which the day had been begun ; dis- 
pleasure at her coarse heavy coverlid and cotton sheets again taking 
its place among weightier matters ; — and dreamed of tying them 
together into a rope by which to let herself down out of the window ; 
but when she had got so far, Ellen’s sleep became sound, and the 
end of the dream was never known. 


CHAPTER XI. 

Downward, and ever farther, 

And ever the brook beside; 

And ever fresher murmured, 

And ever clearer, the tide. 

Longfellow. From the German. 

Clouds and rain and cold winds kept Ellen within doors for several 
days. This did not better the state of matters between herself and 
her aunt. Shut up with her in the kitchen from morning till night, 
with the only variety of the old lady’s company part of the time, 
Ellen thought neither of them improved upon acquaintance. Per- 
haps they thought the same of her ; she was certainly not in her 
best mood. With nothing to do, the time hanging very heavy on 
her hands, disappointed, unhappy, frequently irritated, Ellen became 
at length very ready to take offence, and nowise disposed to pass it 
over or smooth it away. She seldom showed this in words, it is 
true, but it rankled in her mind. Listless and brooding, she sat 
day after day, comparing the present with the past, wishing vain 
wishes, indulging bootless regrets, and looking upon her aunt and 
grandmother with an eye of more settled aversion. The only other 
person she saw was Mr. Van Brunt, who came in regularly to meals ; 
but he never said any thing unless in answer to Miss Fortune’s 
questions and remarks about the farm concerns. These did not 
interest her ; and she was greatly wearied with the sameness of her 
life. She longed to go out again ; but Thursday, and Friday, and 
Saturday, and Sunday passed, and the weather still kept her close 
prisoner. Monday brought a change, but though a cool, drying 
wind blew all day, the ground was too wet to venture out. 

On the evening of that day, as Miss Fortune was setting the 
table for tea, and Ellen sitting before the fire, feeling weary of 
every thing, the kitchen door opened, and a girl somewhat larger 
and older than herself came in. She had a pitcher in her hand, 
and marching straight up to the tea-table, she said, 

“ Will you let granny have a little milk to-night. Miss Fortune? 
I can’t find the cow. I’ll bring it back to-morrow.” 


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115 


“ You ha’n’t lost her, Nancy ?” 

“ Have, though,” said the other ; “ she’s been awav these two 
days.” 

“ Why didn’t you go somewhere nearer for milk?” 

“ Oh ! I don’t know — I guess your’n is the sweetest,” said the 
girl, with a look Ellen did not understand. 

Miss Fortune took the pitcher and went into the pantry. While 
she was gone, the two children improved the time in looking very 
hard at each other. Ellen’s gaze was modest enough, though it 
showed a great deal of interest in the new object; but the broad, 
searching stare of the other seemed intended to take in all there 
was of Ellen from her head to her feet, and keep it, and find out 
what sort of a creature she was at once. Ellen almost shrank from 
the bold black eyes, but they never wavered, till Miss Fortune’s 
voice broke the spell. 

“ How’s your grandmother, Nancy?” 

“ She’s tolerable, ma’am, thank you.” 

“ Now if you don’t bring it back to-morrow, you won’t get any 
more in a hurry,” said Miss Fortune, as she handed the pitcher 
back to the girl. 

“ I’ll mind it,” said the latter, with a little nod of her head, 
which seemed to say there was no danger of her forgetting. 

“ Who is that, aunt Fortune ?” said Ellen, when she was gone. 

“ She is a girl that lives up on the mountain yonder.” 

“ But what’s her name?” 

“ I had just as lief you wouldn’t know her name. She ain’t a 
good girl. Don’t you never have any thing to do with her.” 

Ellen was in no mind to give credit to all her aunt’s opinions, 
and she set this down as in part at least coming from ill-humour. 

The next morning was calm and fine, and Ellen spent nearly the 
whole of it out of doors. She did not venture near the ditch, but 
in every other direction she explored the ground, and examined 
what stood or grew upon it as thoroughly as she dared. Toward 
noon she was standing by the little gate at the back of the house, 
unwilling to go in, but not knowing what more to do, when Mr. 
Van Brunt came from the lane with a load of wood. Ellen 
watched the oxen toiling up the ascent, and thought it looked like 
very hard work ; she was sorry for them. 

“Isn’t that a very heavy load?” she asked of their driver, as 
he was throwing it down under the apple-tree. 

“Heavy? Not a bit of it. It ain’t nothing at all to ’em. 
They’d take twice as much any day with pleasure.” 

“ I shouldn’t think so,” said Ellen ; “ they don’t look as if there 
was much pleasure about it. What makes them lean over so 
against each other when they are coming up hill?” 

“Oh, that’s just a way they’ve got. They’re so fond of each 


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other, I suppose. Perhaps they’ve something particular to say, 
and want to put their heads together for the purpose.” 

“No,” said Ellen, half laughing, “it can’t be that; they 
wouldn’t take the very hardest time for that; they would wait till 
they got to the top of the hill ; but there they stand just as if 
they were asleep, only their eyes are open. Poor things !” 

“ They’re not very poor any how,” said Mr. Van Brunt; “ there 
ain’t a finer yoke of oxen to be seen than them are, nor in better 
condition.” 

He went on throwing the wood out of the cart, and Ellen stood 
looking at him. 

“ What’ll you give me if I’ll make you a scup one of these 
days?” said Mr. Van Brunt. 

“A scup?” said Ellen 

“ Yes — a scup ! how would you like it?” 

“ I don’t know what it is,” said Ellen. 

“ A scup ! — may be you don’t know it by that name ; some folks 
call it a swing.” 

“A swing! oh, yes,” said Ellen, “ now I know. Oh, I like it 
very much.” 

“Would you like to have one?” 

“ Yes, indeed I should, very much.” 

“ Well, what’ll you give me, if I’ll fix you one?” 

“I don’t know,” said Ellen, “I have nothing to give; I’ll be 
very much obliged to you, indeed.” 

“Well now, come, I’ll make a bargain with you; I’ll engage to 
fix up a scup for you, if you’ll give me a kiss.” 

Poor Ellen was struck dumb. The good-natured Dutchman had 
taken a fancy to the little pale-faced, sad-looking stranger, and 
really felt very kindly disposed toward her, but she neither knew, 
nor at the moment cared about that. She stood motionless, utterly 
astounded at his unheard-of proposal, and not a little indignant ; 
but when, with a good-natured smile upon his round face, he came 
near to claim the kiss he no doubt thought himself sure of, Ellen 
shot from him like an arrow from a bow. She rushed to the 
house, and bursting open the door, stood with flushed face and 
sparkling eyes in the presence of her astonished aunt. 

“What in the world is the matter?” exclaimed that lady. 

“He wanted to kiss me!” said Ellen, scarce knowing whom 
she was talking to, and crimsoning more and more. 

“ Who wanted to kiss you ?” 

“ That man out there.” 

“ What man ?” 

“ The man that drives the oxen.” 

“What, Mr. Van Brunt?” And Ellen never forgot the loud 
ha! ha! which burst from Miss Fortune’s wide-open mouth. 


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“ Well, why didn’t you let him kiss you?” 

The laugh, the look, the tone, stung Ellen to the very quick. 
In a fury of passion she dashed away out of the kitchen, and up 
to her own room. And there, for a while, the storm of anger 
drove over her with such violence that conscience had hardly time 
to whisper. Sorrow came in again as passion faded, and gentler 
but very bitter weeping took the place of convulsive sobs of rage 
and mortification, and then the whispers of conscience began to be 
heard a little. “ Oh, mamma ! mamma l” cried poor Ellen in her 
heart, “how miserable I am without you ! I never can like aunt 
Fortune — it’s of no use — I never can like her ; I hope I shan’t get 
to hate her! — and that isn’t right. I am forgetting all that is 
good and there’s nobody to put me in mind. Oh, mamma ! if 
I could lay my head in your lap for a minute 1” Then came 
thoughts of her Bible and hymn-book, and the friend who had 
given it; sorrowful thoughts they were ; and at last, humbled 
and sad, poor Ellen sought that great friend she knew she had 
displeased, and prayed earnestly to be made a good child ; she felt 
and owned she was not one now. 

It was long after mid-day when Ellen rose from her knees. Her 
passion was all gone ; she felt more gentle and pleasant than she 
had done for days ; but at the bottom of her heart resentment was 
not all gone. She still thought she had cause to be angry, and 
she could not think of her aunt’s look and tone without a thrill 
of painful feeling. In a very different mood, however, from that 
in which she had flown up stairs two or three hours before, she 
now came softly down, and went out by the front door, to avoid 
meeting her aunt. She had visited that morning a little brook 
which ran through the meadow on the other side of the road. It 
had great charms for her ; and now crossing the lane and creeping 
under the fence, she made her way again to its banks. At a par- 
ticular spot, where the brook made one of its sudden turns, Ellen 
sat down upon the grass, and watched the dark water, — whirling, 
brawling over the stones, hurrying past her, with ever the same 
soft pleasant sound, and she was never tired of it. She did not 
hear footsteps drawing near, and it was not till some one was close 
beside her, and a voice spoke almost in her ears, that she raised 
her startled eyes and saw the little girl who had come the evening 
before for a pitcher of milk. 

“ What are you doing?” said the latter. 

I’m watching for fish,” said Ellen. 

“ Watching for fish !” said the other, rather disdainfully. 

“ Yes,” said Ellen, — “ there, in that little quiet place they come 
sometimes; I’ve seen two.” 

“ You can look for fish another time. Come now and take a 
walk with me.” 


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“ Where ?” said Ellen. 

“ Oh, you shall see. Come ! I’ll take you all about and show 
you where people live; you ha’n’t been anywhere yet, have you?” 

“ No,” said Ellen, — “ and I should like dearly to go, but ” 

She hesitated. Her aunt’s words came to mind, that this was 
not a good girl, and that she must have nothing to do with her ; 
but she had not more than half believed them, and she could not 
possibly bring herself now to go in and ask Miss Fortune’s leave 
to take this walk. “I am sure,” thought Ellen, “she would re- 
fuse me if there was no reason in the world.” And then the de- 
light of rambling through the beautiful country, and being for 
awhile in other company than that of her aunt Fortune and the old 
grandmother ! The temptation was too great to be withstood. 

“Well, what are you thinking about?” said the girl; “ what’s 
the matter ? won’t you come ?’ ’ 

“ Yes,” said Ellen, “ I’m ready. Which way shall we go?” 

With the assurance from the other that she would show her 
plenty of ways, they set off down the lane ; Ellen with a secret 
fear of being seen and called back, till they had gone some distance, 
and the house was hid from view. Then her pleasure became great. 
The afternoon was fair and mild, the footing pleasant, and Ellen 
felt like a bird out of a cage. She was ready to be delighted with 
every trifle ; her companion could not by any means understand or 
enter into her bursts of pleasure at many a little thing which she 
of the black eyes thought not worthy of notice. She tried to 
bring Ellen back to higher subjects of conversation. 

“ How long have you been here?” she asked. 

“ Oh, a good while,” said Ellen, — “ I don’t know exactly ; it’s 
a week, I believe.” 

“ Why, do you call that a good while?” said the other. 

“ Well, it seems a good while to me,” said Ellen, sighing ; “ it 
seems as long as four, I am sure.” 

“ Then you don’t like to live here much, do you ?” 

“ I had rather be at home, of course.” 

“ How do you like your aunt Fortune?” 

“How do I like her?” said Ellen, hesitating, — “ I think she’s 
good-looking, and very smart.” 

“ Yes, you needn’t tell me she’s smart, — every body knows that ; 
that ain’t what I ask you ; — how do you like her?” 

“ How do I like her?” said Ellen, again ; “ how can I tell how 
I shall like her? I haven’t lived with her but a week yet.” 

“ You might just as well ha’ spoke out,” said the other, some- 
what scornfully ; — “ do you think I don’t know you half hate her 
already ? and it’ll be whole hating in another week more. When 
I first heard you’d come, I guessed you’d have a sweet time with 
her.” 


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119 


“Why?” said Ellen. 

“Oh, don’t ask me why,” said the other, impatiently, “ when 
you know as well as I do. Every soul that speaks of you says 
‘poor child !’ and ‘ I’m glad I ain’t her.’ You needn’t try to come 
cunning over me. I shall be too much for you, I tell you.” 

“ I don’t know what you mean,” said Ellen. 

“ Oh, no, I suppose you don’t,” said the other, in the same tone, 
— “of course you don’t; I suppose you don’t know whether your 
tongue is your own or somebody’s else. You think Miss Fortune 
is an angel, and so do I ; to be sure she is !” 

Not very pleased with this kind of talk, Ellen walked on for a 
while in grave silence. Her companion mean time recollected her- 
self ; when she spoke again it was with an altered tone. 

“ How do you like Mr. Van Brunt?” 

“ I don’t like him at all,” said Ellen, reddening. 

“Don’t you!” said the other surprised, — “why every body 
likes him. What don’t you like him for?” 

“ I don’t like him,” repeated Ellen. 

“ Ain’t Miss Fortune queer to live in the way she does ?” 

“ What way?” said Ellen. 

“ Why, without any help, — doing all her own work, and living 
all alone, when she’s so rich as she is.” 

“Is she rich?” asked Ellen. 

“ Rich ! I guess she is ! she’s one of the very best farms in the 
country, and money enough to have a dozen help, if she wanted 
’em. Van Brunt takes care of the farm, you know?” 

“ Does he ?” said Ellen. 

“ Why, yes, of course he does ; didn’t you know that? what did 
you think he was at your house all the time for?” 

“I am sure I don’t know,” said Ellen. “And are those aunt 
Fortune’s oxen that he drives?” 

“ To be sure they are. Well, I do think you are green, to have 
been there all this time, and not found that out. Mr. Van Brunt 
does just what he pleases over the whole farm though ; hires what 
help he wants, manages every thing ; and then he has his share of 
all that comes off it. I tell you what — you’d better make friends 
with V an Brunt, for if any body can help you when your aunt gets one 
of her ugly fits, it’s him ; she don’t care to meddle with him much.” 

Leaving the lane, the two girls took a foot-path leading across 
the fields. The stranger was greatly amused here with Ellen’s awk- 
wardness in climbing fences. Where it was a possible thing, she 
was fain to crawl under ; but once or twice that could not be done, 
and having with infinite difficulty mounted to the top rail, poor 
Ellen sat there in a most tottering condition, uncertain on which 
side of the fence she should tumble over, but seeing no other pos- 
sible way of getting down. The more she trembled the more her 


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companion laughed, standing aloof meanwhile, and insisting she 
should get down by herself. Necessity enabled her to do this at 
last, and each time the task became easier ; but Ellen secretly made 
up her mind that her new friend was not likely to prove a very good 
one. 

As they went along, she pointed out to Ellen two or three houses 
in the distance, and gave her not a little gossip about the people 
who lived in them ; but all this Ellen scarcely heard, and cared 
nothing at all about. She had paused by the side of a large rock 
standing alone by the wayside, and was looking very closely at its 
surface. 

“ What is this curious brown stuff,” said Ellen, “growing all 
over the rock ? — like shrivelled and dried-up leaves ? Isn’t it 
curious ? part of it stands out like a leaf, and part of it sticks fast ; 
I wonder if it grows here, or what it is.” 

“Oh, never mind,” said the other; “it always grows on the 
rocks everywhere ; I don’t know what it is, and what’s more I don’t 
care. ’Tain’t worth looking at. Come !” 

Ellen followed her. But presently the path entered an open 
woodland, and now her delight broke forth beyond bounds. 

“ Oh, how pleasant this is ! how lovely this is ! Isn’t it beautiful ?” 
she exclaimed. 

“ Isn’t what beautiful ? I do think you are the queerest girl, 
Ellen.” 

“ Why, every thing,” said Ellen, not minding the latter part of 
the sentence ; “ the ground is beautiful, and those tall trees, and 
that beautiful blue sky — only look at it.” 

( The ground is all covered with stones and rocks — is that what 
you call beautiful ? and the trees are as homely as they can be, 
with their great brown stems and no leaves. Come ! what are you 
staring at?” 

Ellen’s eyes were fixed on a string of dark spots which were 
rapidly passing overhead. 

“Hark!” said she; “do you hear that noise? what is that? 
what is that ?’ ’ 

“ Isn’t it only a flock of ducks,” said the other, contemptuously ; 

“ come ! do come !” 

But Ellen was rooted to the ground, and her eyes followed the 
airy travellers till the last one had quitted the piece of blue sky 
which the surrounding woods left to be seen. And scarcely were 
these gone when a second flight came in view, following exactly in 
the track of the first. 

“ Where are they going?” said Ellen. 

“I am sure I don’t know where they are going ; they never told 
me. I know where I am going ; I should like to know whether 
you are going along with me.” 


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121 


Ellen, however, was in no hurry. The ducks had disappeared, 
but her eye had caught something else that charmed it. 

“ What is this ?” said Ellen. 

“ Nothing but moss.” 

“ Is that moss ! How beautiful ! how green and soft it is ! I 
declare it’s as soft as a carpet.” 

“ As soft as a carpet !” repeated the other : “ I should like to see 
a carpet as soft as that ! you never did, I guess.” 

“ Indeed I have, though,” said Ellen, who was gently jumping 
up and down on the green moss to try its softness, with a face of 
great satisfaction. 

“ I don’t believe it a bit,” said the other ; “ all the carpets I ever 
saw were as hard as a board, and harder ; as soft as that, indeed !” 

“Well,” said Ellen, still jumping up and down, with bonnet off, 
and glowing cheek, and hair dancing about her face, “ you may 
believe what you like; but I’ve seen a carpet as soft as this, and 
softer too ; only one, though.” 

“ What was it made of?” 

“ What other carpets are made of, I suppose. Come, I’ll go 
with you now. I do think this is the loveliest place I ever did 
see. Are there any flowers here in the spring?” 

“ I don’t know — yes, lots of ’em.” 

“ Pretty ones?” said Ellen. 

“ You'd think so, I suppose ; 1 never look at ’em.” 

“ Oh, how lovely that will be !” said Ellen, clasping her hands; 
“ how pleasant it must be to live in the country !” 

“Pleasant, indeed!” said the other; “I think it’s hateful. 
You’d think so, too, if you lived where I do. It makes me mad 
at granny every day because she won’t go to Thirl wall. Wait till 
we get out of the wood, and I’ll show you where I live. You 
can’t see it from here.” 

Shocked a little at her companion’ s lan guage, Ellen again walked on 
in sober silence. Gradually the ground became more broken, sinking 
rapidly from the side of the path, and rising again in a steep bank 
on the other side of a narrow dell ; both sides were thickly 
wooded, but stripped of green, now, except where here and there 
a hemlock flung its graceful branches abroad and stood in lonely 
beauty among its leafless companions. Now the gurgling of waters 
was heard. 

“ Where is that ?” said Ellen, stopping short. 

“ ’Way down, down, at the bottom there. It’s the brook.” 

“ What brook ? Not the same that goes by aunt Fortune’s ?” 

“ Yes, it’s the very same. It’s the crookedest thing you ever 
saw. It runs over there,” said the speaker, pointing with her 
arm, “and then it takes a turn and goes that way, and then it 
comes round so, and then it shoots off in that way again and 

jr 11 


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passes by your house ; and after that the dear knows where it 
goes, for I don’t. But I don’t suppose it could run straight if it 
was to try to.” 

“ Can’t we get down to it?” asked Ellen. 

“ To be sure we can, unless you’re as afraid of steep banks as you 
are of fences.” 

Very steep indeed it was, and strewn with loose stones, but 
Ellen did not falter here, and though once or twice in imminent 
danger of exchanging her cautious stepping for one long roll to 
the bottom, she got there safely on her two feet. When there, 
every thing was forgotten in delight. It was a wild little place. 
The high, close sides of the dell left only a little strip of sky 
overhead ; and at their feet ran the brook, much more noisy and 
lively here than where Ellen had before made its acquaintance ; 
leaping from rock to rock, eddying round large stones, and boiling 
over the small ones, and now and then pouring quietly over some 
great trunk of a tree that had fallen across its bed and dammed 
up the whole stream. Ellen could scarcely contain herself at the 
magnificence of many of the waterfalls, the beauty of the little 
quiet pools where the water lay still behind some large stone, and 
the variety of graceful tiny cascades. 

“Look here, Nancy!” cried Ellen, “that’s the Falls of Niagara 
— do you see ? — that large one ; Oh, that is splendid ! And this 
will do for Trenton Falls — what a fine foam it makes — isn’t it a 
beauty? — and what shall we call this? I don’t know what to call 
it; I wish we could name them all. But there’s no end to them. 
Oh, just look at that one ! that’s too pretty not to have a name ; 
what shall it be?” 

“ Black Falls,” suggested the other. 

“ Black,” said Ellen, dubiously, “why! — I don’t like that.” 

“ Why the water’s all dark and black, don’t you see?” 

“ Well,” said Ellen, “ let it be Black, then ; but I don’t like it. 
Now remember, — this is Niagara, — that is Black, — and this is 
Trenton, — and what is this?” 

“If you are a-going to name them all,” said Nancy, “we 
shan’t get home to-night; you might as well name all the trees ; 
there’s a hundred of ’em, and more. I say, Ellen! suppos’n we 
follow the brook instead of climbing up yonder again ; it will take 
us out to the open fields by and by.” 

“ Oh, do let’s !” said Ellen ; “ that will be lovely.” 

It proved a rough way ; but Ellen still thought and called it 
“ lovely.” Often by the side of the stream there was no footing 
at all, and the girls picked their way over the stones, large and 
small, wet and dry, which strewed its bed ; against which the 
water foamed and fumed and fretted, as if in great impatience. It 
was ticklish work getting along over these stones ; now tottering 


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on an unsteady one ; now slipping on a wet one ; and every now 
and then making huge leaps from rock to rock, which there was 
no other method of reaching, at the imminent hazard of falling 
in. But they laughed at the danger ; sprang on in great glee, 
delighted with the exercise and the fun ; didn’t stay long enough 
anywhere to lose their balance, and enjoyed themselves amazingly. 
There was many a hair-breadth escape ; many an almost sousing ; 
but that made it all the more lively. The brook formed, as Nancy 
had said, a constant succession of little waterfalls, its course being 
quite steep and very rocky ; and in some places there were pools 
quite deep enough to have given them a thorough wetting, to say 
no more, if they had missed their footing and tumbled in. But 
this did not happen. In due time, though with no little difficulty, 
they reached the spot where the brook came forth from the wood into 
the open day, and thence making a sharp turn to the right, skirted 
along by the edge of the trees, as if unwilling to part company 
with them. 

“ I guess we’d better get back into the lane now,” said Miss 
Nancy, “ we’re a pretty good long way from home.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

u Behind the door stand bags o’ meal, 

And in the ark is plenty. 

And good hard cakes his mither makes, 

And mony a sweeter dainty. 

A good fat sow, a sleeky cow 
Are standing in the byre ; 

While winking puss, wi’ mealy mou, 

Is playing round the fire.” 

Scotch Song. 

They left the wood and the brook behind them, and crossed a 
large stubble-field; then got over a fence into another. They were 
in the midst of this when Nancy stopped Ellen, and bade her look 
up toward the west, where towered a high mountain, no longer 
hid from their view by the trees. 

“I told you I’d show you where I live,” said she. “ Look up 
now, — clear to the top of the mountain, almost, and a little to the 
right ; do you see that little mite of a house there ? Look sharp, 
—it’s a’most as brown as the rock, — do you see it? — it’s close by 
that big pine-tree, but it don’t look big from here — it’s just by that 
little dark spot near the top ?” 

“I see it,” said Ellen, — “I see it now: do you live ’way up 
there ?’ ’ 


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“ That’s just what I do ; and that’s just what I wish I didn’t. 
But granny likes it ; she will live there. I’m blessed if I know 
what for, if it ain’t to plague me. Do you think you’d like to live 
up on the top of a mountain like that?” 

“No, I don’t think I should,” said Ellen. “ Isn’t it very cold 
up there ?” 

u Cold ! you don’t know any thing about it. The wind comes 
there, I tell you ! enough to cut you in two ; I have to take and 
hold on to the trees sometimes to keep from being blowed away. 
And then granny sends me out every morning before it’s light, no 
matter how deep the snow is, to look for the cow ; and it’s so bitter 
cold I expect nothing else but I’ll be froze to death some time.” 

“Oh,” said Ellen, with a look of horror, “how can she do 
so ?” 

“ Oh, she don’t care,” said the other ; “ she sees my nose freeze 
off every winter, and it don’t make no difference.” 

“ Freeze your nose off!” said Ellen. 

“ To be sure,” said the other nodding gravely, — “ every winter ; 
it grows out again when the warm weather comes.” 

“ And is that the reason why it is so little?” said Ellen, inno- 
cently, and with great curiosity. 

“ Little !” said the other, crimsoning in a fury, — “ what do you 
mean by that? it’s as big as yours any day, I can tell you.” 

Ellen involuntarily put her hand to her face to see if Nancy 
spoke true. Somewhat reassured to find a very decided ridge 
where her companion’s nose was wanting in the line of beauty, 
she answered in her turn, — 

“ It’s no such thing, Nancy ! you oughtn’t to say so ; you know 
better.” 

“I don't know better ! I ought to say so !” replied the other, 
furiously. “ If I had your nose, I’d be glad to have it freeze off ; 
I’d a sight rather have none. I’d pull it every day, if I was you, 
to make it grow.” 

“ I shall believe what aunt Fortune said of you was true,” said 
Ellen. She had coloured very high, but she added no more, and 
walked on in dignified silence. Nancy stalked before her in silence 
that was meant to be dignified too, though it had not exactly that 
air. By degrees each cooled down, and Nancy was trying to find 
out what Miss Fortune had said of her, when on the edge of the 
next field they met the brook again. After running a long way to 
the right, it had swept round, and here was flowing gently in the 
opposite direction. But how were they ever to cross it ? The 
brook ran in a smooth current between them and a rising bank on 
the other side, so high as to prevent their seeing what lay beyond. 
There were no stepping stones now. The only thing that looked 
like a bridge was an old log that had fallen across the brook, or 


“ Ellen set out upon her perilous journey.” 



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125 


perhaps had at some time or other been put there on purpose ; and 
that lay more than half in the water ; what remained of its surface 
was green with moss and slippery with slime. Ellen was sadly 
afraid to trust herself on it ; but what to do ? — Nancy soon settled 
the question as far as she was concerned. Pulling off her thick 
shoes, she ran fearlessly upon the rude bridge ; her clinging bare 
feet carried her safely over, and Ellen soon saw her reshoeing her- 
self in triumph on the opposite side ; but thus left behind and 
alone, her own difficulty increased. 

“ Pull off your shoes, and do as I did,” said Nancy. 

“ I can’t,” said Ellen ; “ I’m afraid of wetting my feet; I know 
mamma wouldn’t let me.” 

“ Afraid of wetting your feet !” said the other ; “ what a chick- 
aninny you are ! Well, if you try to come over with your shoes 
on you’ll fall in, I tell you ; and then you’ll wet more than your 
feet. But come along somehow, for I won’t stand waiting here 
much longer.” 

Thus urged, Ellen set out upon her perilous journey over the 
bridge. Slowly and fearfully, and with as much care as possible, 
she set step by step upon the slippery log. Already half of the 
danger was passed, when, reaching forward to grasp Nancy’s out- 
stretched hand, she missed it, — perhaps that was Nancy’s fault, — 
poor Ellen lost her balance and went in head foremost. The water 
was deep enough to cover her completely as she lay, though not 
enough to prevent her getting up again. She was greatly fright- 
ened, but managed to struggle up first to a sitting posture, and 
then to her feet, and then to wade out to the shore ; though, 
dizzy and sick, she came near falling back again more than once. 
The water was very cold ; and, thoroughly sobered, poor Ellen felt 
chill enough in body and mind too ; all her fine spirits were gone ; 
and not the less because Nancy had risen to a great pitch of 
delight at her misfortune. The air rang with her laughter ; she 
likened Ellen to every ridiculous thing she could think of. Too 
miserable to be angry, Ellen could not laugh, and would not cry, 
but she exclaimed in distress, — 

“ Oh, what shall I do ! I am so cold !” 

“Come along,” said Nancy; “give me your hand; we’ll run 
right over to Mrs. Van Brunt’s — ’tain’t far — its just over here. 
There,” said she, as they got to the top of the bank, and came 
within sight of a house standing only a few fields off, — “ there it 
is ! Bun, Ellen, and we’ll be there directly.” 

“Who is Mrs. Van Brunt?” Ellen contrived to say, as Nancy 
hurried her along. 

“Who is she? — run, Ellen! — why she’s just Mrs. Van Brunt 

your Mr. Van Brunt’s mother you know, — make haste, Ellen — 

we had rain enough the other day ; I’m afraid it wouldn’t be good 

11 * 


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for the grass if you stayed too long in one place ; — hurry ! I m 
afraid you’ll catch cold, — you got your feet wet after all, I m 
sure.’ ’ 

Run they did; and a few minutes brought them to Mrs. Van 
Brunt’s door. The little brick walk leading to it from the court- 
yard gate was as neat as a pin ; so was every thing else the eye 
could rest on ; and when Nancy went in poor Ellen stayed her foot 
at the door, unwilling to carry her wet shoes and dripping gar- 
ments any further. She could hear, however, what was going on. 

“ Hillo ! Mrs. Van Brunt,” shouted Nancy, — “ where are you? 
— oh ! Mrs. Van Brunt, are you out of water? ’cos if you are I’ve 
brought you a plenty ; the person that has it don’t want it ; she’s 
just at the door ; she wouldn’t bring it in till she knew you wanted 
it; oh, Mrs. Van Brunt, don’t look so or you’ll kill me with laugh- 
ing. Come and see ! come and see.” 

The steps within drew near the door, and first Nancy showed 
herself, and then a little old woman, not very old either, of very 
kind, pleasant countenance. 

“ What is all this?” said she in great surprise. “Bless me! 
poor little dear ! what is this ?” 

“Nothing in the world but a drowned rat, Mrs. Van Brunt, 
don’t you see ?” said Nancy. 

“ Go home, Nancy Vawse ! go home,” said the old lady, “ you’re 
a regular bad girl. I do believe this is some mischief o’ yourn, 
go right off home ; it’s time you were after your cow a great while 
ago.” 

As she spoke, she drew Ellen in, and shut the door. 

“Poor little dear,” said the old lady, kindly, “what has hap- 
pened to you? Come to the fire, love, you’re trembling with the 
cold. Oh, dear ! dear ! your soaking wet ; this is all along of. 
Nancy somehow, I know; how was it, love? Ain’t you Miss 
Fortune’s little girl? Never mind, don’t talk, darling; there ain’t 
one bit of colour in your face, not one bit.” 

Good Mrs. Van Brunt had drawn Ellen to the fire, and all this 
while she was pulling off as fast as possible her wet clothes. Then 
sending a girl who was in waiting, for clean towels, she rubbed 
Ellen dry from head to foot, and wrapping her in a blanket, left 
her in a chair before the fire, while she went to seek something for 
her to put on. Ellen had managed to tell who she was, and how 
her mischance had come about, but little else, though the kind old 
lady had kept on pouring out words of sorrow and pity during the 
whole time. She came trotting back directly with one of her own 
short gowns, the only thing that she could lay hands on that was 
anywhere near Ellen’s length. Enormously big it was for her, but 
Mrs. Van Brunt wrapped it round and round, and the blanket over 
it again, and then she bustled about till she had prepared a tumbler 


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127 


of hot drink, which she said was to keep Ellen from catching cold. 
It was any thing but agreeable, being made from some bitter herb, 
and sweetened with molasses ; but Ellen swallowed it, as she would 
any thing else at such kind hands, and the old lady carried her 
herself into a little room opening out of the kitchen, and laid her 
in a bed that had been warmed for her. Excessively tired and 
weak as she was, Ellen scarcely needed the help of the hot herb 
tea to fall into a very deep sleep ; perhaps it might not have lasted 
so very long as it did, but for that. Afternoon changed for even- 
ing, evening grew quite dark, still Ellen did not stir ; and after 
every little journey into the bedroom to see how she was doing, 
Mrs. Van Brunt came back saying how glad she was to see her 
sleeping so finely. Other eyes looked on her for a minute — kind 
and gentle eyes; though Mrs. Van Brunt’s were kind and gentle 
too ; once a soft kiss touched her forehead, there was no danger of 
waking her. 

It was perfectly dark in the little bedroom, and had been so a 
good while, when Ellen was aroused by some noise, and then a 
rough voice she knew very well. Feeling faint and weak, and not 
more than half awake yet, she lay still and listened. She heard 
the outer door open and shut, and then the voice said, 

“ So mother, you’ve got my stray sheep here, have you ?” 

“Ay, ay,” said the voice of Mrs. Van Brunt, “have you been 
looking for her? how did you know she was here?” 

“ Looking for her ! ay, looking for her ever since sundown. She 
has been missing at the house since some time this forenoon. I 
believe her aunt got a bit scared about her; any how I did. She’s 
a queer little chip as ever I see.” 

“She’s a dear little soul, I know,” said his mother; “you 
needn’t say nothin’ agin her, I ain’t a going to believe it.” 

“No more am I — I’m the best friend she’s got, if she only 
knowed it; but don’t you think,” said Mr. Van Brunt, laughing, 
“ I asked her to give me a kiss this forenoon, and if I’d been an 
owl she couldn’t ha’ been more scared ; she went off like a streak, 
and Miss Fortune said she was as mad as she could be, and that’s 
the last of her.” 

“ How did you find her out?” 

“ I met that mischievous Vawse girl, and I made her tell me ; 
she had no mind to at first. It’ll be the worse for Ellen if she 
takes to that wicked thing.” 

“ She won’t. Nancy has been taking her a walk, and worked it 
so as to get her into the brook, and then she brought her here, 
just as dripping wet as she could be. I gave her something hot 
and put her to bed, and she’ll do, I reckon ; but I tell you it gave 
me queer feelings to see the poor little thing just as white as ashes, 
and all of a tremble, and looking so sorrowful too. She’s sleeping 


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finely now ; but it ain’t right to see a child’s face look so ; — it ain’t 
right,” repeated Mrs. Van Brunt, thoughtfully. — “You ha’n’t had 
supper, have you ?” 

“ No, mother, and I must take that young one back. Ain’t she 
awake yet?” 

“I’ll see directly; but she ain’t going home, nor you neither, 
’Bralim, till you’ve got your supper; it would be a sin to let her. 
She shall have a taste of my splitters this very night; I’ve been 
makin’ them o’ purpose for her. So you may just take off your 
hat and sit down.” 

“ You mean to let her know where to come when she wants good 
things, mother. Well, 1 won’t say splitters ain’t worth waiting 
for.” 

Ellen heard him sit down, and then she guessed from the words 
that passed that Mrs. Van Brunt and her little maid were busied 
in making the cakes ; she lay quiet. 

“ You’re a good friend, ’Brahm,” began the old lady again, “ no- 
body knows that better than me ; but I hope that poor little thing 
has got another one to-day that’ll do more for her than you can.” 

“ What, yourself, mother? I don’t know about that.” 

“No, no ; do you think I mean myself? — there, turn it quick, 
Sally ! — Miss Alice has been here.” 

“ How ? this evening ?” 

“Just a little before dark, on her grey pony. She came in for 
a minute, and I took her — that’ll burn, Sally ! — I took her in to 
see the child while she was asleep, and I told her all you told me 
about her. She didn’t say much, but she looked at her very sweet, 
as she always does, and I guess, — there — now I’ll see after my little 
sleeper.” 

And presently Mrs. Van Brunt came to the bedside with a light, 
and her arm full of Ellen’s dry clothes. Ellen felt as if she could 
have put her arms round her kind old friend and hugged her with 
all her heart ; but it was not her way to show her feelings before 
strangers. She suffered Mrs. Van Brunt to dress her in silence, 
only saying with a sigh, “ How kind you are to me, ma’am!” to 
which the old lady replied with a kiss, and telling her she mustn’t 
say a word about that. 

The kitchen was bright with firelight and candlelight ; the tea- 
table looked beautiful with its piles of white splitters, besides 
plenty of other and more substantial things ; and at the corner of 
the hearth sat Mr. Yan Brunt. 

“ So, ” said he, smiling, as Ellen came in and took her stand at 
the opposite corner, — “ so I drove you away this morning ? You 
ain’t mad with me yet, I hope.” 

Ellen crossed directly over to him, and putting her little hand in 
his great rough one, said, “ I’m very much obliged to you, Mr. 


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129 

Van Brunt, for taking so much trouble to come and look after 
me.” 

She said it with a look of gratitude and trust that pleased him 
very much. 

“Trouble, indeed!” said he, good-humouredly, “ I’d take twice 
as much any day for what you wouldn’t give me this forenoon. 
But never fear, Miss Ellen, I ain’t a going to ask you that again. 

He shook the little hand ; and from that time Ellen and her 
rough charioteer were firm friends. 

Mrs. Van Brunt now summoned them to table; and Ellen was 
well feasted with the splitters, which were a kind of rich short- 
cake baked in irons, very thin and crisp, and then split in two and 
buttered, whence their name. A pleasant meal was that. What- 
ever an epicure might have thought of the tea, to Ellen in her 
famished state it was delicious ; and no epicure could have found 
fault with the cold ham and the butter and the cakes ; but far bet- 
ter than all was the spirit of kindness that was there. Ellen feasted 
on that more than on any thing else. If her host and hostess were not 
very polished, they could not have been outdone in their kind care 
of her and kind attention to her wants. And when the supper was 
at length over, Mrs. Van Brunt declared a little colour had come 
back to the pale cheeks. The colour came back in good earnest a 
few minutes after, when a great tortoise-shell cat walked into the 
room. Ellen jumped down from her chair, and presently was be- 
stowing the tenderest caresses upon pussy, who stretched out her 
head and purred as if she liked them very well. 

“ What a nice cat !” said Ellen. 

“She has five kittens,” said Mrs. Yan Brunt. 

“Five kittens!” said Ellen. “Oh, may I come some time and 
see them ?” 

“ You shall see ’em right away, dear, and come as often as you 
like too. Sally, just take a basket, and go fetch them kittens here.” 

Upon this, Mr. Van Brunt began to talk about its being time to 
go, if they were going. But his mother insisted that Ellen should 
stay where she was ; she said she was not fit to go home that 
night, that she oughtn’t to walk a step, and that ‘ Brahm’ should 
go and tell Miss Fortune the child was safe and well, and would 
be with her early in the morning. Mr. Van Brunt shook his head 
two or three times, but finally agreed, to Ellen’s great joy. When 
he came back, she was sitting on the floor before the fire, with all 
the five kittens in her lap, and the old mother cat walking around 
and over her and them. But she looked up with a happier face 
then he had ever seen her wear, and told him she was “ so much 
obliged to him for taking such a long walk for her ;” and Mr. Yan 
Brunt felt that, like his oxen, he could have done a great deal 
more with pleasure. 


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CHAPTER XIII. 

It’s hardly in a body’s pow’r, 

To keep at times frae being sour. 

Burns. 

Before the sun was up the next morning, Mrs. Van Brunt came 
into Ellen’s room and aroused her. 

“ It’s a real shame to wake you up,” she said, “ when you were 
sleeping so finely; but ’Brahm wants to be off to his work, and 
won’t stay for breakfast. Slept sound, did you?” 

“ Oh, yes, indeed; as sound as a top,” said Ellen, rubbing her 
eyes ; — “ I am hardly awake yet.” 

“I declare it’s too had,” said Mrs. Van Brunt, — “but there’s 
no help for it. You don’t feel no headache, do you, nor pain in 
your bones?” 

“No, ma’am, not a bit of it; I feel nicely.” 

“ Ah ! well,” said Mrs. Van Brunt, “ then your tumble into the 
brook didn’t do you any mischief ; I thought it wouldn’t. Poor 
little soul !’ ’ 

“I am very glad I did fall in,” said Ellen, “for if I hadn’t I 
shouldn’t have come here, Mrs. Van Brunt.” 

The old lady instantly kissed her. 

“Oh! mayn’t I just take one look at the kitties?” said Ellen, 
when she was ready to go. 

“Indeed you shall,” said Mrs. Van Brunt, “if ’Brahm’s hurry 
was ever so much ; — and it ain’t, besides. Come here, dear.” 

She took Ellen back to a waste lumber-room, where in a corner, 
on some old pieces of carpet, lay pussy and her family. How 
fondly Ellen’s hand was passed over each little soft back ! how 
hard it was for her to leave them ! 

“Wouldn’t you like to take one home with you, dear?” said 
Mrs. Van Brunt, at length. 

“ Oh ! may I?” said Ellen, looking up in delight ; “ are you in 
earnest? Oh, thank you, dear Mrs. Van Brunt ! Oh, I shall be so 
glad !” 

“ Well, choose one then, dear, — choose the one you like best, 
and ’Brahm shall carry it for you.” 

The choice was made, and Mrs. Van Brunt and Ellen returned 
to the kitchen, where Mr. Yan Brunt had already been waiting 
some time. He shook his head when he saw what was in the 
basket his mother handed to him. 

“That won’t do,” said he: “I can’t go that, mother. I’ll 
undertake to see Miss Ellen safe home, but the cat ’ud be more 


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than I could manage. I think I’d hardly get off with a whole skin 
’tween the one and t’other.” 

“Well, now !” said Mrs. Van Brunt. 

Ellen gave a longing look at her little black-and-white favourite, 
which was uneasily endeavouring to find out the height of the basket, 
and mewing at the same time with a most ungratified expression. 
However, though sadly disappointed, she submitted with a very 
good grace to what could not be helped. First setting down the 
little cat out of the basket it seemed to like so ill, and giving it one 
farewell pat and squeeze, she turned to the kind old lady who stood 
watching her, and throwing her arms around her neck, silently spoke 
her gratitude in a hearty hug and kiss. 

“ Good-by, ma’am,” said she ; “ I may come and see them some 
time again, and see you, mayn’t I?” 

“Indeed you shall, my darling,” said the old woman, “just as 
often as you like ; — just as often as you can get away. I’ll make 
’Brahm bring you home sometimes. ’Brahm, you’ll bring her, 
won’t you?” 

“ There’s two words to that bargain, mother, I can tell you ; but 
if I don’t, I’ll know the reason on’t.” 

And away they went. Ellen drew two or three sighs at first, but 
she could not help brightening up soon. It was early — not sun- 
rise ; the cool freshness of the air was enough to give one new life 
and spirit ; the sky was fair and bright ; and Mr. Van Brunt marched 
along at a quick pace. Enlivened by the exercise, Ellen speedily 
forgot every thing disagreeable ; and her little head was filled with 
pleasant things. She watched where the silver light in the east 
foretold the sun’s coming. She watched the silver change to gold, 
till a rich yellow tint was flung over the whole landscape ; and 
then broke the first rays of light upon the tops of the western hills, 
— the sun was up. It was a new sight to Ellen. 

“ How beautiful ! Oh, how beautiful !” she exclaimed. 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Yan Brunt, in his slow way, “ it’ll be a fine day 
for the field. I guess I’ll go with the oxen over to that ’ere big 
meadow.” 

“Just look,” said Ellen, “how the light comes creeping down 
the side of the mountain, — now it has got to the wood, — Oh, do 
look at the tops of the trees ! Oh, I wish mamma was here.” 

Mr. Yan Brunt didn’t know what to say to this. He rather 
wished so too, for her sake. 

“ There,” said Ellen, “ now the sunshine is on the fence, and the 
road, and every thing. I wonder what is the reason that the sun 
shines first upon the top of the mountain, and then comes so slowly 
down the side ; why don’t it shine on the whole at once?” 

Mr. Yan Brunt shook his head in ignorance. “ He guessed it 
always did so,” he said. 


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« Yes,” said Ellen, “ I suppose it does, but that’s the very thing, 
— I want to know the reason why. And I noticed just now, it 
shone in my face before it touched my hands. Isn’t it queer?” 

“Humph ! — there’s a great many queer things, if you come to 
that,” said Mr. Van Brunt, philosophically. 

But Ellen’s head ran on from one thing to another, and her next 
question was not so wide of the subject as her companion might 
have thought. 

“ Mr. Van Brunt, are there any schools about here ?” 

“Schools?” said the person addressed, “yes — there’s plenty of 
schools.” 

“ Good ones?” said Ellen. 

“ Well, I don’t exactly know about that; there’s Captain Conk- 
lin’s, that had ought to be a good ’un ; he’s a regular smart man, 
they say.” 

“ Whereabouts is that?” said Ellen. 

“ His school ? it’s a mile or so the other side of my house.” 

“ And how far is it from your house to aunt Fortune’s ?” 

“A good deal better than two mile, but we’ll be there before 
long. You ain’t tired, be you ?” 

“No,” said Ellen. But this reminder gave a new turn to her 
thoughts, and her spirits were suddenly checked. Her former 
brisk and springing step changed to so slow and lagging a one, that 
Mr. Van Brunt more than once repeated his remark that he saw 
she was tired. 

If it was that, Ellen grew tired very fast; she lagged more 
and more as they neared the house, and at last quite fell behind, 
and allowed Mr. Van Brunt to go in first. 

Miss Fortune was busy about the breakfast, and as Mr. Van Brunt 
afterwards described it, “ looking as if she could have bitten off a 
tenpenny nail,” and indeed as if the operation would have been 
rather gratifying than otherwise. She gave them no notice at first, 
bustling to and fro with great energy, but all of a sudden she 
brought up directly in front of Ellen, and said, 

“ Why didn’t you come home last night?” 

The words were jerked out rather than spoken. 

“ I got wet in the brook,” said Ellen, “ and Mrs. Van Brunt was 
so kind as to keep me.” 

“ Which way did you go out of the house yesterday?” 

“Through the front door.” 

“ The front door was locked.” 

“ I unlocked it.” 

“ What did you go out that way for?” 

“ I didn’t want to come this way.” 

“Why not?” 

Ellen hesitated. 


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“Why not?” demanded Miss Fortune still more emphatically 
than before. 

“ I did’t want to see you, ma’am,” said Ellen flushing. 

“ If ever you do so again !” said Miss Fortune in a kind of cold 
fury ; “ I’ve a great mind to whip you for this, as ever I had to eat.” 

The flush faded on Ellen’s cheek, and a shiver visibly passed 
over her — not from fear. She stood with downcast eyes and com- 
pressed lips, a certain instinct of childish dignity warning her to 
be silent. Mr. Van Brunt put himself in between. 

“ Come, come !” said he, “this is getting to be too much of a 
good thing. Beat your cream, ma’am, as much as you like, or if 
you want to try your hand on something else you’ll have to take 
me first, I promise you.” 

“Now don’t you meddle, Yan Brunt,” said the lady sharply, 
“ with what ain’t no business o’ yourn.” 

“I don’t know about that,” said Mr. Van Brunt, — “maybe it 
is my business ; but meddle or no meddle, Miss Fortune, it is time 
for me to be in the field ; and if you ha’ n’t no better breakfast for 
Miss Ellen and me than all this here, we’ll just go right away hum 
again ; but there’s something in your kettle there that smells un- 
commonly nice, and I wish you’d just let us have it and no more 
words.” 

No more words did Miss Fortune waste on any one that morn- 
ing. She went on with her work and dished up the breakfast in 
silence, and with a face that Ellen did not quite understand ; only 
she thought she had never in her life seen one so disagreeable. 
The meal was a very solemn and uncomfortable one. Ellen could 
scarcely swallow, and her aunt was near in the same condition. 
Mr. Yan Brunt and the old lady alone despatched their breakfast 
as usual ; with no other attempts at conversation than the com- 
mon mumbling on the part of the latter, which nobody minded, 
and one or two strange grunts from the former, the meaning of 
which, if they had any, nobody tried to find out. 

There was a breach now between Ellen and her aunt that 
neither could make any effort to mend. Miss Fortune did not 
renew the disagreeable conversation that Mr. Yan Brunt had 
broken off ; she left Ellen entirely to herself, scarcely speaking to 
her, or seeming to know when she went out or came in. And this 
lasted day after day. Wearily they passed. After one or two, 
Mr. Yan Brunt seemed to stand just where he did before in Miss 
Fortune’s good graces; — but not Ellen. To her, when others 
were not by, her face wore constantly something of the same cold, 
hard, disagreeable expression it had put on after Mr. Yan Brunt’s 
interference, — a look that Ellen came to regard with absolute ab- 
horrence. She kept away by herself as much as she could ; but 
she did not know what to do with her time, and for want of some- 

12 


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thing better often spent it in tears. She went to bed cheerless 
night after night, and arose spiritless morning after morning 7 ; and 
this lasted till Mr. Van Brunt more than once told his mother that 
“that poor little thing was going wandering about like a ghost, 
and growing thinner and paler every day ; and he didn’t know what 
she would come to if she went on so.” 

Ellen longed now for a letter with unspeakable longing, — but 
none came ; — day after day brought new disappointment, each day 
more hard to bear. Of her only friend, Mr. Van Brunt, she 
saw little ; he was much away in the fields during the fine 
weather, and when it rained Ellen herself was prisoner at 
home, whither he never came but at meal times. The old grand- 
mother was very much disposed to make much of her ; but Ellen 
shrank, she hardly knew why, from her fond caresses, and never 
found herself alone with her if she could help it ; for then she 
was regularly called to the old lady’s side and obliged to go 
through a course of kissing, fondling, and praising, she would 
gladly have escaped. In her aunt’s presence this was seldom 
attempted, and never permitted to go on. Miss Fortune was sure 
to pull Ellen away and bid her mother “ stop that palavering,” — 
avowing that “it made her sick.” Ellen had one faint hope that 
her aunt would think of sending her to school, as she employed 
her in nothing at home, and certainly took small delight in her 
company ; but no hint of the kind dropped from Miss Fortune’s 
lips ; and Ellen’s longing look for this as well as for a word from 
her mother was daily doomed to be ungratified and to grow more 
keen by delay. 

One pleasure only remained to Ellen in the course of the day, 
and that one she enjoyed with the carefulness of a miser. It was 
seeing the cows milked, morning and evening. For this she got 
up very early and watched till the men came for the pails ; and 
then away she bounded out of the house and to the barnyard. 
There were the milky mothers, five in number, standing about, 
each in her own corner of the yard or cowhouse, waiting to be re- 
lieved of their burden of milk. They were fine gentle animals, in 
excellent condition, and looking every way happy and comfortable ; 
nothing living under Mr. Van Brunt’s care was ever suffered to 
look otherwise. He was always in the barn or barnyard at milk- 
ing time, and under his protection Ellen felt safe and looked on at 
her ease. It was a very pretty scene — at least she thought so. 
The gentle cows standing quietly to be milked as if they enjoyed 
it, and munching the cud ; and the white stream of milk foaming 
into the pails ; then there was the interest of seeing whether Sam 
or Johnny would get through first; and how near Jane or Dolly 
would come to rivalling Streaky’s fine pailful ; and at last Ellen 
allowed Mr. Yan Brunt to teach herself how to milk. She began 



“Where is the post-office, Mr. Van Brunt?” she asked one 
morning, as she stood watching the sharpening of an axe upon the 
grindstone. The axe was in that gentleman’s hand, and its edge 
carefully laid to the whirling-stone, which one of the farm-boys 
was turning. 

“ Where is the post-office? Why, over to Thirl wall to be sure, 
replied Mr. Van Brunt, glancing up at her from his work.— 
“ Faster, Johnny.” 

“ And how often do the letters come here ?” said Ellen. 

“ Take care, Johnny ! — some more water, — mind your business, 
will you ! — Just as often as I go to fetch ’em, Miss Ellen, and no 
oftener.” 

“And how often do you go, Mr. Van Brunt?” 


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with trembling, but learnt fast enough ; and more than one pailful 
of milk that Miss Fortune strained had been, unknown to her, 
drawn by Ellen’s fingers. These minutes in the farmyard were the 
pleasantest in Ellen’s day. While they lasted every care was for- 
gotten and her little face was as bright as the morning ; but the 
milking was quickly over, and the cloud gathered on Ellen’s brow 
almost as soon as the shadow of the house fell upon it. 


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11 Only when I’ve some other errand Miss Ellen ; my grain 
would never be in the barn if I was running to the post-office 
every other thing, — and for what ain’t there too. I don’t get a 
letter but two or three times a year I s’ pose, though I call, — I 
guess, — half a dozen times.” 

“ Ah but there’s one there now, or soon will be, I know, for 
me,” said Ellen. “ When do you think you will go again, Mr. 
Van Brunt?” 

“Now if I’d ha’ knowed that I’d ha’ gone to Thirlwall yester- 
day — I was within a mile of it. I don’t see as I can go this week 
anyhow in the world; but I’ll make some errand there the first 
day I can, Miss Ellen, that you may depend on. You shan’t wait 
for your letter a bit longer than I can help.” 

“ Oh, thank you, Mr. Van Brunt — you’re very kind. Then the 
letters never come except when you go after them ?’ ’ 

..“No; — yes — they do come once in a while by old Mr. Swaim, 
but he ha’ n’t been here this great while.” 

“ And who’s he?” said Ellen. 

“ Oh, he’s a queer old chip that goes round the country on all 
sorts of errands; he comes along once in awhile. That’ll do, 
Johnny, — I believe this here tool is as sharp as I have any occa- 
sion for.” 

“ What’s the use of pouring water upon the grindstone?” said 
Ellen ; “ why wouldn’t it do as well dry?” 

“I can’t tell, I am sure,” replied Mr. Van Brunt, who was 
slowly drawing his thumb over the edge of the axe ; “ your ques- 
tions are a good deal too sharp for me, Miss Ellen ; I only know 
it would spoil the axe, or the grindstone, or both most likely.” 

“It’s very odd,” said Ellen, thoughtfully; “I wish I knew 
every thing. But, oh dear ! I am not likely to know any thing,” 
said she, her countenance suddenly changing from its pleased in- 
quisitive look to a cloud of disappointment and sorrow. Mr. Van 
Brunt noticed the change. 

“ Ain’t your aunt going to send you to school, then?” said he. 

“ I don’t know,” said Ellen, sighing ; “ she never speaks about 
it, nor about anything else. But I declare I’ll make her!” she 
exclaimed, changing again. “I’ll go right in and ask her, and then 
she’ll have to tell me. I will ! I am tired of living so. I’ll know 
what she means to do, and then I can tell what I must do.” 

Mr. V an Brunt, seemingly dubious about the success of this line 
of conduct, stroked his chin and his axe alternately two or three 
times in silence, and finally walked off. Ellen, without waiting 
for her courage to cool, went directly into the house. 

Miss Fortune, however, was not in the kitchen ; to follow her 
into her secret haunts, the dairy, cellar, or lower kitchen was not 
to be thought of. Ellen waited awhile, but her aunt did not come, 


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137 


and the excitement of the moment cooled down. She was not 
quite so ready to enter upon the business as she had felt at first ; 
she had even some qualms about it. 

“ But I’ll do it,” said Ellen to herself ; “ it will be hard, but I’ll 
do it!” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

For my part, he keeps me here rustically 
At home, or, to speak more properly, stays 
Me here at home unkept. 

As You Like It. 

The next morning after breakfast Ellen found the chance she 
rather dreaded than wished for. Mr. Van Brunt had gone out; 
the old lady had not left her room, and Miss Fortune was quietly 
seated by the fire, busied with some mysteries of cooking. Like 
a true coward, Ellen could not make up her mind to bolt at once 
into the thick of the matter, but thought to come to it gradually, 

! — always a bad way. 

“ What is that, aunt Fortune ?” said she, after she had watched 
her with a beating heart for about five minutes. 

“ What is what?” 

“ I mean, what is that you are straining through the colander 
into that jar?” 

“ Hop-water.” 

“ What is it for?” 

“I’m scalding this meal with it to make turnpikes.” 

“Turnpikes!” said Ellen; “I thought turnpikes were high, 
smooth roads with toll-gates every now and then — that’s what 
mamma told me they were.” 

“ That’s all the kind of turnpikes your mamma knew any thing 
about, I reckon,” said Miss Fortune, in a tone that conveyed the 
notion that Mrs. Montgomery’s education had been very incom- 
plete. “ And indeed,” she added immediately after, “if she had 
made more turnpikes and paid fewer tolls, it would have been just 
as well, I’m thinking.” 

Ellen felt the tone, if she did not thoroughly understand the 
words. She was silent a moment; then remembering her purpose, 
she began again. 

“What are these then, aunt Fortune?” 

“ Cakes, child, cakes ! — turnpike cakes — what I raise the bread 
with.” 

“ What, those little brown cakes I have seen you melt in water 
and mix in the flour when you make bread?” 

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“ Mercy on us! yes! you’ve seen hundreds of ’em since you’ve 
been here if you never saw one before.” 

“I never did,” said Ellen. “But what are they called turn- 
pikes for ?” 

“ The land knows ! — I don’t. For mercy’s sake stop asking me 
questions, Ellen; I don’t know what’s got into you; you’ll drive 
me crazy.” 

“ But there’s one more question I want to ask very much,” said 
Ellen, with her heart beating. 

“ Well, ask it then quick, and have done, and take yourself off. 
I have other fish to fry than to answer all your questions.” 

Miss Fortune, however, was still quietly seated by the fire stir- 
ring her meal and hop-water, and Ellen could not be quick ; the 
words stuck in her throat, — came out at last. 

“ Aunt Fortune, I wanted to ask you if I may go to school ?” 

“ Yes.” 

Ellen’s heart sprang with a feeling of joy, a little qualified by 
the peculiar dry tone in which the word was uttered. 

“ When may I go ?” 

“ As soon as you like.” 

“ Oh, thank you, ma’am. To which school shall I go, aunt For- 
tune ?” 

“ To whichever you like.” 

“ But I don’t know any thing about them,” said Ellen ; — “ how 
can I tell which is best?” 

Miss Fortune was silent. 

“ What schools are there near here ?” said Ellen. 

“There’s Captain Conklin’s down at the Cross, and Miss Emer- 
son’s at Thirl wall.” 

Ellen hesitated. The name was against her, but nevertheless 
she concluded on the whole that the lady’s school would be the 
pleasantest. 

“Is Miss Emerson any relation of vours?” she asked 
“No.” 

“ I think I should like to go to her school the best. I will go 
there if you will let me, — may I?” 

“Yes.” 

“ And I will begin next Monday, — may I?” 

“ Yes.” 

Ellen wished exceedingly that her aunt would speak in some 
other tone of voice ; it was a continual damper to her rising hopes. 

“I’ll get my books ready,” said she,— “ and look ’em over a 
little too, I guess. But what will be the best way for me to sro 
aunt Fortune ?” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ I couldn’t walk so far, could I?” 


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139 


“ You know best.” 

“I couldn’t I am sure,” said Ellen; — “it’s four miles to Thirl- 
wall, Mr. Van Brunt said ; that would be too much for me to walk 
twice a day ; and I should be afraid besides.” 

A d$ad silence. 

“ But aunt Fortune, do please tell me what I am to do. How 
can I know unless you tell me ? What way is there that I can go 
to school ?’ ’ 

“ It is unfortunate that I don’t keep a carriage,” said Miss For- 
tune, — “ but Mr. Van Brunt can go for you morning and evening 
in the ox-cart, if that will answer.” 

“ The ox-cart ! But dear me ! it would take him all day, aunt 
Fortune. It takes hours and hours to go and come with the oxen ; 
— Mr. Van Brunt wouldn’t have time to do any thing but carry 
me to school and bring me home.” 

“ Of course, — but that’s of no consequence,” said Miss Fortune, 
in the same dry tone. 

“ Then I can’t go — there’s no help for it,” said Ellen despond- 
ingly. “ Why didn’t you say so before? When you said yes I 
thought you meant yes.” 

She covered her face. Miss Fortune rose with a half smile and 
carried her jar of scalded meal into the pantry. She then came back 
and commenced the operation of washing up the breakfast things. 

“ Ah, if I only had a little pony,” said Ellen, “that would carry 
me there and back, and go trotting about with me everywhere, — 
how nice that would be !” 

“ Yes, that would be very nice ! And who do you think would 
go trotting about after the pony ? I suppose you would leave that 
to Mr. Y an Brunt ; and I should have to go trotting about after 
you, to pick you up in case you broke your neck in some ditch or 
gully ; — it would be a very nice affair altogether I think.” 

Ellen was silent. Her hopes had fallen to the ground, and her 
disappointment was unsoothed by one word of kindness or sym- 
pathy. With all her old grievances fresh in her mind, she sat 
thinking her aunt was the very most disagreeable person she ever 
had the misfortune to meet with. No amiable feelings were 
working within her ; and the cloud on her brow was of displeas- 
ure and disgust, as well as sadness and sorrow. Her aunt saw it. 

“What are you thinking of?” said she, rather sharply. 

“I am thinking,” said Ellen, “I am very sorry I cannot go to 
school.” 

“ Why, what do you want to learn so much ? you know how to 
read and write and cipher, don’t you ?” 

“Bead and write and cipher?” said Ellen, — “to be sure I do; 
but that’s nothing ; — that’s only the beginning.” 

“ Well, what do you want to learn besides?” 


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“ Oh, a great many things.” 

“Well what?” 

“ Oh, a great many things,” said Ellen ; — “ French, and Italian, 
and Latin, and music, and arithmetic and chemistry, and all about 
animals and plants and insects, — I forget what it’s called, — and — 
Oh, I can’t recollect; a great many things. Every now and 
then I think of something I want to learn ; I can’t remember 
them now. But I’m doing nothing,” said Ellen sadly, — “learn- 
ing nothing — I am not studying and improving myself as I meant 
to ; mamma will be disappointed when she comes back, and I 
meant to please her so much !” 

The tears were fast coming ; she put her hand upon her eyes to 
force them back. 

“If you are so tired of being idle,” said Miss Fortune, “I’ll 
warrant I’ll give you something to do ; and something to learn too, 
that you want enough more than all those crinkumcrankums ; I 
wonder what good they’d ever do you! That’s the way your 
mother was brought up I suppose. If she had been trained to 
use her hands and do something useful instead of thinking herself 
above it, maybe she wouldn’t have had to go to sea for her health 
just now; it doesn’t do for women to be bookworms.” 

“ Mamma isn’t a bookworm !” said Ellen indignantly ; — “ I don’t 
know what you mean ; and she never thinks herself above being 
useful ; it’s very strange you should say so when you don’t know 
any thing about her.” 

“ I know she ha’ n’t brought you up to know manners, anyhow,” 
said Miss Fortune. “ Look here, I’ll give you something to do, — 
just you put.- those plates and dishes together ready for washing, 
while I am down stairs.” 

Ellen obeyed, unwillingly enough. She had neither knowledge 
of the business nor any liking for it ; so it is no wonder Miss 
Fortune at her return was not well pleased. 

“ But I never did such a thing before,” said Ellen. 

“ There it is now !” said Miss Fortune. “ I wonder where your 
eyes have been every single time that I have done it since you 
have been here. I should think your own sense might have told 
you! But you’re too busy learning of Mr. Van Brunt to know 
what’s going on in the house. Is that what you call made ready 
for washing? Now just have the goodness to scrape every plate 
clean off and put them nicely in a pile here ; and turn out the 
slops out of the tea-cups and saucers and set them by themselves. 
— Well ! what makes you handle them so? are you afraid they’ll 
burn you ?” 

“ I don’t like to take hold of things people have drunk out of,” 
said Ellen, who was indeed touching the cups and saucers very 
delicately with the tips of her fingers. 


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141 


“ Look here,” said Miss Fortune, — “ don’t you let me hear no 
more of that, or I vow I’ll give you something to do you won’t 
like. Now put the spoons here, and the knives and forks together 
here ; and carry the salt-cellar and the pepper-box and the butter 
and the sugar into the buttery.” 

“ 1 don’t know where to put them,” said Ellen. 

“Come along, then, and I’ll show you ; it’s time you did. I 
reckon you’ll feel better when you’ve something to do, and you 
shall have plenty. There — put them in that cupboard, and set the 
butter up here, and put the bread in this box, do you see ? now 
don’t let me have to show you twice over.” 

This was Ellen’s first introduction to the buttery ; she had never 
dared to go in there before. It was a long, light closet or pantry, 
lined on the left side, and at the further end, with wide shelves 
up to the ceiling. On these shelves stood many capacious pans 
and basins of tin and earthenware, filled with milk, and most of 
them coated with superb yellow cream. Midway was the window, 
before which Miss Fortune was accustomed to skim her milk ; and 
at the side of it was the mouth of a wooden pipe, or covered 
trough, which conveyed the refuse milk down to an enormous 
hogshead standing at the lower kitchen door, whence it was drawn 
as wanted for the use of the pigs. Beyond the window in the 
buttery, and on the higher shelves, were rows of yellow cheeses ; 
forty or fifty were there at least. On the right hand of the door 
was the cupboard, and a short range of shelves, which held in 
ordinary all sorts of matters for the table, both dishes and eatables. 
Floor and shelves were well painted with thick yellow paint, hard 
and shining, and clean as could be ; and there was a faint pleasant 
smell of dairy things. 

Ellen did not find out all this at once, but in the course of a day or 
two, during which her visits to the buttery were many. Miss Fortune 
kept her word, and found her plenty to do ; Ellen’s life soon became 
a pretty busy one. She did not like this at all ; it was a kind of 
work she had no love for ; yet no doubt it was a good exchange for 
the miserable moping life she had lately led. Any thing was better 
than that. One concern, however, lay upon poor Ellen’s mind with 
pressing weight, — her neglected studies and wasted time ; for no 
better than wasted she counted it. “ What shall I do?” she said 
to herself, after several of these busy days had passed ; “ I am 
doing nothing — I am learning nothing — I shall forget all I have 
learnt, directly. At this rate I shall not know any more than all 
these people around me; and what will mamma say? — Well, if I 
can’t go to school I know what I will do,” she said, taking a sudden 
resolve, “ I’ll study by myself! I’ll see what I can do ; it will be 
better than nothing, any way. I’ll begin this very day !” 

With new life Ellen sprang up stairs to her room, and forthwith 


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began pulling all the things out of her trunk to get at her books. 
They were at the very bottom ; and by the time she had reached 
them half the floor was strewn with the various articles of her 
wardrobe ; without minding them in her first eagerness, Ellen 
pounced at the books. 

“ Here you are, my dear Numa Pompilius,” said she, drawing 
out a little French book she had just begun to read, “ and here you 
are, old grammar and dictionary, — and here is my history, — very 
glad to see you, Mr. Goldsmith ! — and what in the world’s this? — 
wrapped up as if it was something great, — Oh, my expositor ; I am 
not glad to see you , I am sure ; never want to look at your face, or 
your back again. My copy-book — I wonder who’ll set copies for 
me now; — my arithmetic, that’s you! — geography and atlas — all 
right; — and my slate ; but dear me ! I don’t believe I’ve such a 
thing as a slate-pencil in the world ; where shall I get one, I wonder ? 
— well, I’ll manage. And that’s all, — that’s all, I believe.” 

With all her heart Ellen would have begun her studying at once, 
but there were all her things on the floor, silently saying, “ Put us 
up first.” 

“ I declare,” said she to herself, “ it’s too bad to have nothing 
in the shape of a bureau to keep one’s clothes in. I wonder if I 
am to live in a trunk, as mamma says, all the time I am here, and 
have to go down to the bottom of it every time I want a pocket- 
handkerchief or a pair of stockings. How I do despise those grey 
stockings! — But what can I do ? it’s too bad to squeeze my nice 
things up so. I wonder what is behind those doors. I’ll find out, 
I know, before long.” 

On the north side of Ellen’s room were three doors. She had 
never opened them, but now took it into her head to see what was 
there, thinking she might possibly find what would help her out of 
her difficulty. She had some little fear of meddling with any thing 
in her aunt’s domain ; so she fastened her own door, to guard against 
interruption while she was busied in making discoveries. 

At the foot of her bed, in the corner, was one large door fastened 
by a button, as indeed they were all. This opened, she found, upon 
a flight of stairs, leading as she supposed to the garret, but Ellen 
did not care to go up and see. They were lighted by half of a 
large window, across the middle of which the stairs went up. She 
quickly shut that door, and opened the next, a little one. Here she 
found a tiny closet under the stairs, lighted by the other half of the 
window. There was nothing in it but a broad low shelf or step 
under the stairs, where Ellen presently decided she could stow 
away her books very nicely. “ It only wants a little brushing out,” 
said Ellen, “ and it will do very well.” The other door, in the 
other corner, admitted her to a large light closet, perfectly empty. 
“ Now if there were only some hooks or pegs here,” thought Ellen, 


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“ to hang up dresses on — but why shouldn’t I drive some nails ? — 
I will ! I will ! Oh, that’ll be fine.” 

Unfastening her door in a hurry, she ran down stairs, and her 
heart beating, between pleasure and the excitement of daring so far 
without her aunt’s knowledge, she ran out and crossed the chip- 
yard to the barn, where she had some hope of finding Mr. Van 
Brunt. By the time she got to the little cowhouse door a great 
noise of knocking or pounding in the barn made her sure he was 
there, and she went on to the lower barn-floor. There he was, he 
and the two farm boys (who, by the by, were grown men), all three 
threshing wheat. Ellen stopped at the door, and for a minute for- 
got what she had come for in the pleasure of looking at them. The 
clean floor was strewn with grain, upon which the heavy flails came 
down one after another, with quick regular beat, — one — two — three 
— one — two — three, — keeping perfect time. The pleasant sound 
could be heard afar off ; though, indeed, where Ellen stood it was 
rather too loud to be pleasant. Her little voice had no chance of 
being heard ; she stood still and waited. Presently Johnny who 
was opposite caught a sight of her, and without stopping his work, 
said to his leader, “Somebody there for you, Mr. Van Brunt.” 
That gentleman’s flail ceased its motion, then he threw it down, 
and went to the door to help Ellen up the high step. 

“Well,” said he, “have you come out to see what’s going 
on ?” 

“No,” said Ellen, “I’ve been looking — but Mr. Van Brunt, 
could you be so good as to let me have a hammer and half-a-dozen 
nails?” 

“ A hammer and half-a-dozen nails ; — come this way,” said he. 

They went out of the barnyard and across the chip-yard to an 
outhouse below the garden and not far from the spout, called the 
poultry-house ; though it was quite as much the property of the 
hogs, who had a regular sleeping apartment there, where corn was 
always fed out to the fatting ones. Opening a kind of granary 
store-room, where the corn for this purpose was stored, Mr. Van 
Brunt took down from a shelf a large hammer and a box of nails, 
and asked Ellen what size she wanted. 

“ Pretty large.” 

“So?” 

“ No, a good deal bigger yet I should like.” 

“‘A good deal bigger yet,’ — who wants ’em ?” 

“I do,” said Ellen, smiling. 

“ You do ! do you think your little arms can manage that big 
hammer?” 

“ I don’t know ; I guess so ; I’ll try.” 

“ Where do you want ’em driv?” 

“ Up in a closet in my room,” said Ellen, speaking as softly as 


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if she had feared her aunt was at the corner ; “ I want ’em to hang 
up dresses and things.” 

Mr. Van Brunt half smiled, and put up the hammer and nails 
on the shelf again. 

“ Now I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said he ; — “ you can’t man- 
age them big things; “I’ll put ’em up for you to-night when I 
come in to supper.” 

“But I’m afraid she won’t let you,” said Ellen doubtfully. 

“ Never you mind about that,” said he, “ I’ll fix it. Maybe we 
won’t ask her.” 

“Oh, thank you!” said Ellen joyfully, her face recovering its 
full sunshine in answer to his smile ; and clapping her hands she 
ran back to the house, while more slowly Mr. Van Brunt returned 
to the threshers. Ellen seized dust-pan and brush and ran up to 
her room ; and setting about the business with right good will, she 
soon had her closets in beautiful order. The books, writing-desk, 
and work-box were then bestowed very carefully in the one ; in the 
other her coats and dresses neatly folded up in a pile on the floor, 
waiting till the nails should be driven. Then the remainder of her 
things were gathered up from the floor and neatly arranged in the 
trunk again. Having done all this, Ellen’s satisfaction was un- 
bounded. By this time dinner was ready. As soon after dinner 
as she could escape, from Miss Fortune’s calls upon her, Ellen stole 
up to her room and her books, and began work in earnest. The 
whole afternoon was spent over sums and verbs and maps and pages 
of history. A little before tea, as Ellen was setting the table, Mr. 
Van Brunt came into the kitchen with a bag on his back. 

“ What have you got there, Mr. Van Brunt ?” said Miss Fortune. 

“ A bag of seed corn.” 

“ What are you going to do with it?” 

“ Put it up in the garret for safe keeping.” 

“ Set it down in the corner and I’ll take it up to-morrow.” 

“ Thank you, ma’am, — rather go myself, if it’s all the same to 
you. You needn’t be scared, I’ve left my shoes at the door. Miss 
Ellen, I believe I’ve got to go through your room.” 

Ellen was glad to run before to hide her laughter. When they 
reached her room Mr. Van Brunt produced a hammer out of the 
bag, and taking a handful of nails from his pocket, put up a fine 
row of them along her closet wall ; then while she hung up her 
dresses he went on to the garret, and Ellen heard him hammering 
there too. Presently he came down and they returned to the 
kitchen. 

“ What’s all that knocking?” said Miss Fortune. 

“ I’ve been driving some nails,” said Mr. Van Brunt coolly. 

“Up in the garret?” 

“Yes, and in Miss Ellen’s closet; she said she wanted some.” 


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145 


“ You should ha’ spoke to me about it,” said Miss Fortune to 
Ellen. There was displeasure Enough in her face ; but she said no 
more, and the matter blew over much better than Ellen had feared. 

Ellen steadily pursued her plan of studying, in spite of some 
discouragements. 

A letter written about ten days after gave her mother an account 
of her endeavours and of her success. It was a despairing account. 
Ellen complained that she wanted help to understand, and lacked 
time to study ; that her aunt kept her busy, and, she believed, took 
pleasure in breaking her off from her books ; and she bitterly said 
her mother must expect to find an ignorant little daughter when 
she came home. It ended with, “ Oh, if I could just see you, and 
kiss you, and put my arms round you, mamma, I’d be willing to 
die !” 

This letter was despatched the next morning by Mr. Yan Brunt; 
and Ellen waited and watched with great anxiety for his return from 
Thirlwall in the afternoon. 


CHAPTEB XV. 


An ant dropped into the water ; a wood-pigeon took pity of her and threw her 
a little bough. — L’E strange. 


The afternoon was already half spent when Mr. Van Brunt’s 
ox-cart was seen returning. Ellen was standing by the little gate 
that opened on the chip-yard ; and with her heart beating anxiously 
she watched the slow-coming oxen ; — how slowly they came ! At 
last they turned out of the lane and drew the cart up the ascent ; 
and stopping beneath the apple tree Mr. Yan Brunt leisurely got 
down, and flinging back his whip came to the gate. But the little 
face that met him there, quivering with hope and fear, made his 
own quite sober. “I’m really very sorry, Miss Ellen, — ” he 
began. 

That was enough. Ellen waited to hear no more, but turned 
away, the cold chill of disappointment coming over her heart. She 
had borne the former delays pretty well, but this was one too many, 
and she felt sick. She went round to the front stoop, where scarcely 
ever any body came, and sitting down on the steps wept sadly and 
despairingly. 

It might have been half an hour or more after, that the kitchen 
door slowly opened and Ellen came in. Wishing her aunt should 
not see her swollen eyes, she was going quietly through to her 
own room when Miss Fortune called her. Ellen stopped. Miss 
a k 13 


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Fortune was sitting before the fire with an open letter lying in her 
lap and another in her hand. The latter she held out to Ellen, 
saying u Here, child, come and take this.” 

“ What is it?” said Ellen, slowly coming toward her. 

“ Don’t you see what it is?” said Miss Fortune, still holding it 
out. 

11 But who is it from ?” said Ellen. 

{£ Your mother.” 

“A letter from mamma, and not to me!” said Ellen with 
changing colour. She took it quick from her aunt’s hand. But 
her colour changed more as her eye fell upon the first words, “ My 
dear Ellen,” and turning the paper she saw upon the back, “ Miss 
Ellen Montgomery.” Her next look was to her aunt’s face, with 
her eye fired and her cheek paled with anger, and when she spoke 
her voice was not the same. 

“ This is my letter,” she said trembling ; — “ who opened it?” 

Miss Fortune’s conscience must have troubled her a little, for 
her eye wavered uneasily. Only for a second though. 

“ Who opened it?” she answered; “ I opened it. I should like 
to know who has a better right. And I shall open every one that 
comes to serve you for looking so ; — that you may depend upon.” 

The look and the words and the injury together, fairly put 
Ellen beside herself. She dashed the letter to the ground, and 
livid and trembling with various feelings — rage was not the only 
one, — she ran from her aunt’s presence. She did not shed any 
tears now ; she could not ; they were absolutely burnt up by pas- 
sion. She walked her room with trembling steps, clasping and 
wringing her hands now and then, wildly thinking what could she 
do to get out of this dreadful state of things, and unable to see 
any thing but misery before her. She walked, for she could not 
sit down ; but presently she felt that she could not breathe the air 
of the house ; and taking her bonnet she went down, passed 
through the kitchen and went out. Miss Fortune asked where she 
was going, and bade her stay within doors, but Ellen paid no 
attention to her. 

She stood still a moment outside the little gate. She might 
have stood long to look. The mellow light of an Indian-summer 
afternoon lay upon the meadow and the old barn and chip-yard ; 
there was beauty in them all under its smile. Not a breath was 
stirring. The rays of the sun struggled through the blue haze, 
which hung upon the hills and softened every distant object; and 
the silence of nature all around was absolute, made more notice- 
able by the far-off voice of somebody, it might be Mr. Van Brunt, 
calling to his oxen, very far off and not to be seen ; the sound 
came softly to her ear through the stillness. “Peace,” was the 
whisper of nature to her troubled child; but Ellen’s heart was in 


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147 


a whirl ; she could not hear the whisper. It was a relief however 
to be out of the house and in the sweet open air. Ellen breathed 
more freely, and pausing a moment there, and clasping her hands 
together once more in sorrow, she went down the road and out at 
the gate, and exchanging her quick broken step for a slow 
measured one, she took the way toward Thirlwall. Little regard- 
ing the loveliness which that day was upon every slope and road- 
side, Ellen presently quitted the Thirlwall road and half uncon- 
sciously turned into a path on the left which she had never taken 
before, — perhaps for that reason. It was not much travelled 
evidently ; the grass grew green on both sides and even in the 
middle of the way, though here and there the track of wheels 
could be seen. Ellen did not care about where she was going ; 
she only found it pleasant to walk on and get further from home. 
The road or lane led toward a mountain somewhat to the north- 
west of Miss Fortune’s ; the same which Mr. Van Brunt had 
once named to Ellen as “ the Nose.” After three quarters of an 
hour the road began gently to ascend the mountain, rising toward 
the north. About one-third of the way from the bottom Ellen 
came to a little foot-path on the left which allured her by its 
promise of prettiness, and she forsook the lane for it. The 
promise was abundantly fulfilled ; it was a most lovely wild wood- 
way path ; but withal not a little steep and rocky. Ellen began 
to grow weary. The lane went on toward the north ; the path 
rather led off toward the southern edge of the mountain, rising 
all the while ; but before she reached that Ellen came to what she 
thought a good resting-place, where the path opened upon a small 
level platform or ledge of the hill. The mountain rose steep 
behind her, and sank very steep immediately before her, leaving a 
very superb view of the open country from the northeast to the 
southeast. Carpeted with moss, and furnished with fallen stones 
and pieces of rock, this was a fine resting-place for the wayfarer, 
or loitering place for the lover of nature. Ellen seated herself on 
one of the stones, and looked sadly and wearily toward the east, at 
first very careless of the exceeding beauty of what she beheld there. 

For miles and miles, on every side but the west, lay stretched 
before her a beautifully broken country. The November haze 
hung over it now like a thin veil, giving great sweetness and soft- 
ness to the scene. Far in the distance a range of low hills showed 
like a misty cloud; near by, at the mountain’s foot, the fields and 
farm-houses a d roads lay a pictured map. About a mile and a 
half to the south rose the mountain where Nancy Vawse lived, 
craggy and bare ; but the leafless trees and stern jagged rocks were 
wrapped in the haze ; and through this the sun, now near the set- 
ting, threw his mellowing rays, touching every slope and ridge with 
a rich warm glow. 


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Poor Ellen did not heed the picturesque effect of all this, yet 
the sweet influences of nature reached her, and softened while they 
increased her sorrow. She felt her own heart sadly out of tune with 
the peace and loveliness of ail she saw. Her eye sought those 
distant hills, — how very far off they were ! and yet all that wide 
tract of country was but a little piece of what lay between her and 
her mother. Her eye sought those hills, — but her mind over- 
passed them and went far beyond, over many such a tract, till it 
reached the loved one at last. But oh ! how much between ! “I 
cannot reach her! — she cannot reach me!” thought poor Ellen. 
Her eyes had been filling and dropping tears for some time, but 
now came the rush of the pent-up storm, and the floods of grief 
were kept back no longer. 

When once fairly excited, Ellen’s passions were always extreme. 
During the former peaceful and happy part of her life the occa- 
sions of such excitement had been very rare. Of late unhappily 
they had occurred much oftener. Many were the bitter fits of tears 
she had known within a few weeks. But now it seemed as if all 
the scattered causes of sorrow that had wrought those tears were 
gathered together and pressing upon her at once ; and that the 
burden would crush her to the earth. To the earth it brought her 
literally. She slid from her seat at first, and embracing the stone 
on which she had sat, she leaned her head there ; but presently in 
her agony quitting her hold of that, she cast herself down upon 
the moss, lying at full length upon the cold ground, which seemed 
to her childish fancy the best friend she had left. But Ellen 
was wrought up to the last pitch of grief and passion. Tears 
brought no relief. Convulsive weeping only exhausted her. In 
the extremity of her distress and despair, and in that lonely place, 
out of hearing of every one, she sobbed aloud, and even screamed, 
for almost the first time in her life ; and these fits of violence were 
succeeded by exhaustion, during which she ceased to shed tears and 
lay quite still, drawing only long sobbing sighs now and then. 

How long Ellen had lain there, or how long this would have gone 
on before her strength had been quite worn out, no one can tell. 
In one of these fits of forced quiet, when she lay as still as the 
rocks around her, she heard a voice close by say, “What is the 
matter, my child ?” 

The silver sweetness of the tone came singularly upon the tem- 
pest in Ellen’s mind. She got up hastily, and brushing away the 
tears from her dimmed eyes, she saw a young lady standing there, 
and a face whose sweetness well matched the voice looking upon 
her with grave concern. She stood motionless and silent. 

“ What is the matter, my dear?” 

The tone found Ellen’s heart and brought the water to her eyes 
again, though with a difference. She covered her face with her 


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149 


hands. But gentle hands were placed upon hers and drew them 
away ; and the lady sitting down on Ellen’s stone, took her in her 
arms ; and Ellen hid her face in the bosom of a better friend than 
the cold earth had been like to prove her. But the change over- 
came her; and the soft whisper, “ Don’t cry any more,” made it 
impossible to stop crying. Nothing further was said for some time ; 



the lady waited till Ellen grew calmer. When she saw her able to 
answer, she said gently, 

“What does all this mean, my child? What troubles you? 
Tell me, and I think we can find a way to mend matters.” 

Ellen answered the tone of voice with a faint smile, but the 
words with another gush of tears. 

13 * 


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“ You are Ellen Montgomery, aren’t you?” 

“ Yes, ma’am.” 

“I thought so. This isn’t the first time I have seen you; I 
have seen you once before.” 

Ellen looked up surprised. 

“ Have you, ma’am? — I am sure I have never seen you.” 

u No, I know that. I saw you when you didn’t see me. Where 
do you think ?” 

“ I can’t tell, I am sure,” said Ellen, — “ I can’t guess ; I haven’t 
seen you at aunt Fortune’s, and I haven’t been anywhere else.” 

“ You have forgotten,” said the lady. “ Did you never hear of 
a little girl who went to take a walk once upon a time, and had an 
unlucky fall into a brook ? — and then went to a kind old lady’s 
house where she was dried and put to bed and went to sleep.” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Ellen. “ Did you see me there, ma’am, and 
when I was asleep?” 

“I saw you there when you were asleep; and Mrs. Van Brunt 
told me who you were and where you lived ; and when I came here 
a little while ago I knew you again very soon. And I knew what 
the matter was too, pretty well ; but nevertheless tell me all about 
it, Ellen ; perhaps I can help you.” 

Ellen shook her head dejectedly. “Nobody in this world can 
help me,” she said. 

“ Then there’s one in heaven that can,” said the lady steadily. 
“ Nothing is too bad for him to mend. Have you asked his help, 
Ellen ?” 

Ellen began to weep again. “ Oh, if I could I would tell you 
all about it, ma’am,” she said; “but there are so many things, I 
don’t know where to begin, I don’t know when I should ever get 
through.” 

“ So many things that trouble you, Ellen ?” 

“ Yes, ma’am.” 

“ I am sorry for that indeed. But never mind, dear, tell me 
what they are. Begin with the worst, and if I haven’t time to 
hear them all now I’ll find time another day. Begin with the 
worst.” 

But she waited in vain for an answer, and became distressed 
herself at Ellen’s distress, which was extreme. 

“Don’t cry so, my child, — don’t cry so,” she said, pressing her 
in her arms. “ What is the matter ? hardly any thing in this world 
is so bad it can’t be mended. I think I know what troubles you so 
— it is that your dear mother is away from you, isn’t it ?” 

“ Oh, no, ma’am !” — Ellen could scarcely articulate. But strug- 
gling with herself for a minute or two, she then spoke again and 
more clearly. 

“ The worst is, — oh the worst is — that I meant — I meant — to be 


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151 


a good child, and I have been worse than ever I was in my life 
before.” 

Her tears gushed forth. 

“ But how, Ellen ?” said her surprised friend after a pause. “ I 
don’t quite understand you. When did you ‘ mean to be a good 
child?’ Didn’t you always mean so? and what have you been 
doing?” 

Ellen made a great effort and ceased crying ; straightened herself ; 
dashed away her tears as if determined to shed no more ; and 
presently spoke calmly, though a choking sob every now and then 
threatened to interrupt her. 

“ I will tell you, ma’am. That first day I left mamma — when I 
was on board the steamboat and feeling as badly as I could feel, a 
kind, kind gentleman, I don’t know who Tie was, came to me and spoke 
to me, and took care of me the whole day. Oh, if I could see him 
again ! He talked to me a great deal ; he wanted me to be a 
Christian ; he wanted me to make up my mind to begin that day 
to be one ; and ma’am, I did. I did resolve with my whole heart, 
and I thought I should be different from that time from what I had 
ever been before. But I think I have never been so bad in my life 
as I have been since then. Instead of feeling right I have felt 
wrong all the time, almost, — and I can’t help it. I have been pas- 
sionate and cross, and bad feelings keep coming, and I know it’s 
wrong, and it makes me miserable. And yet, oh ! ma’am, I haven’t 
changed my mind a bit, — I think just the same as I did that day ; 
I want to be a Christian more than any thing else in the world, but 
I am not, — and what shall I do !” 

Her face sank in her hands again. 

“ And this is your great trouble ?” said her friend. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Do you remember who said, ‘ Come unto me all ye that labour 
and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest’ ?” 

Ellen looked up inquiringly. 

“ You are grieved to find yourself so unlike what you would be. 
You wish to be a child of the dear Saviour and to have your heart 
filled with his love, and to do what will please him. Do you? — 
Have you gone to him day by day, and night by night, and told 
him so ? — have you begged him to give you strength to get the 
better of your wrong feelings, and asked him to change you and 
make you his child?” 

“ At first I did, ma’am,” — said Ellen in a low voice. 

“Not lately?” 

“ No ma’am in a low tone still and looking down. 

“ Then you have neglected your Bible and prayer for some time 
past ?’ ’ 

Ellen hardly uttered, “ Yes.” 


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“ Why, my child ?” 

“ I don’t know, ma’am,” said Ellen weeping, — “ that is one of 
the things that made me think myself so very wicked. I couldn’t 
like to read my Bible or pray, either, though I always used to be- 
fore. My Bible lay down quite at the bottom of my trunk, and 
I even didn’t like to raise my things enough to see the cover of 
it. I was so full of bad feelings I didn’t feel fit to pray or read 
either.” 

“ Ah ! that is the way with the wisest of us,” said her compan- 
ion ; “how apt we are to shrink most from our Physician just 
when we are in most need of him. But Ellen, dear, that isn’t 
right. No hand but his can touch that sickness you are com- 
plaining of. Seek it, love, seek it. He will hear and help you, 
no doubt of it, in every trouble you carry simply and humbly to 
his feet; — he has promised, you know.” 

Ellen was weeping very much, but less bitterly than before ; the 
clouds were breaking and light beginning to shine through. 

“ Shall we pray together now?” said her companion after a few 
minutes’ pause. 

“ Oh, if you please, ma’am, do !” Ellen answered through her 
tears. 

And they knelt together there on the moss beside the stone, 
where Ellen’s head rested and her friend’s folded hands were laid. 
It might have been two children speaking to their father, for the 
simplicity of that prayer ; difference of age seemed to be forgot- 
ten, and what suited one suited the other. It was not without 
difficulty that the speaker carried it calmly through, for Ellen’s 
sobs went nigh to check her more than once. When they rose 
Ellen silently sought her friend’s arms again, and laying her face 
on her shoulder and putting both arms round her neck, she wept 
still, — but what different tears ! It was like the gentle rain falling 
through sunshine, after the dark cloud and the thunder and the 
hurricane have passed by. And they kissed each other before 
either of .them spoke. 

“ You will not forget your Bible and prayer again, Ellen?” 

“ Oh, no, ma’am.” 

“ Then I am sure you will find your causes of trouble grow 
less. I will not hear the rest of them now. In a day or two I 
hope you will be able to give me a very different account from 
what you would have done an hour ago ; but besides that it is 
getting late, and it will not do for us to stay too long up here ; 
you have a good way to go to reach home. Will you come and 
see me to-morrow afternoon ?” 

“ Oh, yes, ma’am, indeed I will ! — if I can ; — and if you will 
tell me where.” 

“ Instead of turning up this little rocky path you must keep 


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153 


straight on in the road, — that’s all ; and it’s the first house you 
come to. It isn’t very far from here. Where were you going on 
the mountain?” 

“ Nowhere, ma’am.” 

“ Have you been any higher up than this?” 

“No, ma’am.” 

“ Then before we go away I want to show you something. I’ll 
take you over the Bridge of the Nose ; it isn’t but a step or two 
more ; a little rough to be sure, but you musn’t mind that.” 

“What is the ‘Bridge of the Nose,’ ma’am?” said Ellen, as 
they left her resting-place, and began to toil up the path which 
grew more steep and rocky than ever. 

“ You know this mountain is called the Nose. Just here it runs 
out to a very thin sharp edge. We shall come to a place presently 
where you turn a very sharp corner to get from one side of the 
hill to the other ; and my brother named it jokingly the Bridge 
of the Nose.” 

“Why do they give the mountain such a queer name?” said 
Ellen. 

“I don’t know I’m sure. The people say that from one point 
of view this side of it looks very like a man’s nose ; but I never 
could find it out, and have some doubt about the fact. But now 
here we are! Just come round this great rock, — mind how you 
step, Ellen, — now look there!” 

The rock they had just turned was at their backs, and they 
looked toward the west. Both exclaimed at the beauty before 
them. The view was not so extended as the one they had left. 
On the north and south the broken wavy outline of mountains 
closed in the horizon ; but far to the west stretched an opening 
between the hills through which the setting sun sent his long 
beams, even to their feet. In the distance all was a golden haze ; 
nearer, on the right and left the hills were lit up singularly, and 
there was a most beautiful mingling of deep hazy shadow and 
bright glowing mountain sides and ridges. A glory was upon the 
valley. Far down below at their feet lay a large lake gleaming in 
the sunlight; and at the upper end of it a village of some size 
showed like a cluster of white dots. 

“How beautiful!” said the lady again. “Ellen, dear, — he 
whose hand raised up those mountains and has painted them so 
gloriously is the very same One who has said, to you and to me, 

‘ Ask and it shall be given you.’ ” 

Ellen looked up ; their eyes met ; her answer was in that grate- 
ful glance. 

The lady sat down and drew Ellen close to her. “ Do you see 
that little white village yonder, down at the far end of the lake ? 
that is the village of Carra-carra ; and that is Carra-carra lake ; 


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that is where I go to church ; you cannot see the little church from 
here. My father preaches there every Sunday morning. 

“ You must have a long way to go,” said Ellen. 

“Yes — a pretty long way, but it’s very pleasant though. I 
mount my little grey pony, and he carries me there in quick time, 
when I will let him. I never wish the way shorter. I go in all 
sorts of weathers too, Ellen ; Sharp and I don’t mind frost and 
snow.” 

“ Who is Sharp?” said Ellen. 

“ My pony. An odd name, isn’t it. It wasn’t of my choosing, 
Ellen, but he deserves it if ever pony did. He’s a very cunning 
little fellow. Where do you go, Ellen? to Thirlwall ?” 

“ To church, ma’am ? — I don’t go anywhere.” 

“ Doesn’t your aunt go to church ?” 

“ She hasn’t since I have been here.” 

“ What do you do with yourself on Sunday?” 

“ Nothing, ma’am ; I don’t know what to do with myself all the 
day long. I get tired of being in the house, and I go out of doors, 
and then I get tired of being out of doors and come in again. I 
wanted a kitten dreadfully, but Mr. Van Brunt said aunt Fortune 
would not let me keep one.” 

“ Did you want a kitten to help you keep Sunday, Ellen ?” said 
her friend smiling. 

“ Yes I did, ma’am,” said Ellen, smiling again ; — “ I thought it 
would be a great deal of company for me. I got very tired of 
reading all day long, and I had nothing to read but the Bible ; and 
you know, ma’am, I told you I have been all wrong ever since I 
came here, and I didn’t like to read that much.” 

“My poor child!” said the lady, — “you have been hardly 
bestead I think. What if you were to come and spend next Sun- 
day with me? Don’t you think I should do instead of a kitten ?” 

“ Oh, yes, ma’am, I am sure of it,” said Ellen clinging to her. 
“ Oh, I’ll come gladly if you will let me, — and if aunt Fortune 
will let me ; and I hope she will, for she said last Sunday I was 
the plague of her life.” 

“ What did you do to make her say so ?” said her friend gravely. 

“ Only asked her for some books, ma’am.” 

“ Well, my dear, I see I am getting upon another of your 
troubles, and we haven’t time for that now. By your own account 
you have been much in fault yourself ; and I trust you will find all 
things mend with your own mending. But now there goes the sun ! 
— and you and I must follow his example.” 

The lake ceased to gleam, and the houses of the village were 
less plainly to be seen ; still the mountain heads were as bright as 
ever. Gradually the shadows crept up their sides while the grey 
of evening settled deeper and deeper upon the valley. 


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155 


“ There,” said Ellen, — “ that’s just what I was wondering at the 
other morning ; only then the light shone upon the top of the 
mountains first and walked down, and now it leaves the bottom first 
and walks up. I asked Mr. Van Brunt about it and he could not 
tell me. That’s another of my troubles, — there’s nobody that can 
tell me any thing.” 

“ Put me in mind of it to-morrow, and I’ll try to make you 
understand it,” said the lady, “ but we must not tarry now. I see 
you are likely to find me work enough, Ellen.” 

“ I’ll not ask you a question, ma’am, if you don’t like it,” said 
Ellen earnestly. 

“ I do like, I do like,” said the other. “ I spoke laughingly, for 
I see you will be apt to ask me a good many. As many as you 
please, my dear.” 

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Ellen, as they ran down the hill; 
“ they keep coming into my head all the while.” 

It was easier going down than coming up. They soon arrived at 
the place where Ellen had left the road to take the wood-path. 

“ Here we part,” said the lady. “ Good-night !” 

“ Good-night, ma’am.” 

There was a kiss and a squeeze of the hand, but when Ellen 
would have turned away the lady still held her fast. 

“You are an odd little girl,” said she. “ I gave you liberty to 
ask me questions.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” said Ellen, doubtfully. 

“ There is a question you have not asked me that I have been 
expecting. Do you know who I am?” 

“ No, ma’am.” 

“ Don’t you want to know ?” 

“ Y es, ma’am, very much, ” said Ellen, laughing at her friend’ s look, 
“ but mamma told me never to try to find out any thing about other 
people that they didn’t wish me to know, or that wasn’t my business.” 

“ Well, I think this is your business decidedly. Who are you 
going to ask for when you come to see me to-morrow ? Will you 
ask for ‘ the young lady that lives in this house ?’ or will you give 
a description of my nose and eyes and inches ?” 

Ellen laughed. 

“My dear Ellen,” said the lady, changing her tone, “do you 
know you please me very much ? For one person that shows her- 
self well-bred in this matter there are a thousand I think that ask 
impertinent questions. I am very glad you are an exception to the 
common rule. But, dear Ellen, I am quite willing you should know 
my name — it is Alice Humphreys. Now kiss me again and run 
home ; it is quite, quite time ; I have kept you too late. Good-night, 
my dear! Tell your aunt I beg she will allow you to take tea with 
me to-morrow.” 


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They parted; and Ellen hastened homewards, urged by the 
rapidly growing dusk of the evening. She trod the green turf 
with a step lighter and quicker than it had been a few hours before, 
and she regained her home in much less time than it had taken 
her to come from thence to the mountain. Lights were in the 
kitchen, and the table set ; but though weary and faint she was 
willing to forego her supper rather than meet her aunt just then ; 
so she stole quietly up to her room. She did not forget her friend’s 
advice. She had no light ; she could not read ; but Ellen did pray. 
She did carry all her heart-sickness, her wants, and her woes, to 
that Friend whose ear is always open to hear the cry of those who 
call upon him in truth ; and then, relieved, refreshed, almost healed, 
she went to bed and slept sweetly. 


CHAPTER XYI. 

After long storms and tempests overblowne, 

The sunne at length his joyous face doth cleare; 

So when as fortune all her spight hath showne, 

Some blissfull houres at last must needs appeare ; 

Else should afflicted wights oft-times despeire. 

Faerie Queene. 

Early next morning Ellen awoke with a sense that something 
pleasant had happened. Then the joyful reality darted into her 
mind, and jumping out of bed she set about her morning work 
with a better heart than she had been able to bring to it for many 
a long day. When she had finished she went to the window. She 
had found out how to keep it open now, by means of a big nail 
stuck in a hole under the sash. It was very early, and in the per- 
fect stillness the soft gurgle of the little brook came distinctly to 
her ear. Ellen leaned her arms on the window-sill, and tasted the 
morning air; almost wondering at its sweetness and at the loveliness 
of field and sky and the bright eastern horizon. For days and days 
all had looked dark and sad. 

There were two reasons for the change. In the first place Ellen 
had made up her mind to go straight on in the path of duty ; in 
the second place, she had found a friend. Her little heart 
bounded with delight and swelled with thankfulness at the 
thought of Alice Humphreys. She was once more at peace with 
herself, and had even some notion of being by and by at peace 
with her aunt ; though a sad twinge came over her whenever she 
thought of her mother’s letter. 

“But there is only one way for me,” she thought; “ I’ll do as 
that dear Miss Humphreys told me — it’s good and early, and I 


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157 


shall have a fine time before breakfast yet to myself. And I’ll 
get up so every morning and have it ! — that’ll be the very best 
plan I can hit upon.” 

As she thought this she drew forth her Bible from its place at 
the bottom of her trunk ; and opening it at hazard she began to 
read the 18th chapter of Matthew. Some of it she did not quite 
understand ; but she paused with pleasure at the 14th verse. 
“ That means me,” she thought. The 21st and 22d verses struck 
her a good deal, but when she came to the last she was almost 
startled. 

“There it is again!” she said. “That is exactly what that 
gentleman said to me. I thought I was forgiven, but how can I 
be, for I feel I have not forgiven aunt Fortune.” 

Laying aside her book, Ellen kneeled down ; but this one 
thought so pressed upon her mind that she could think of scarce 
any thing else ; and her prayer this morning was an urgent and 
repeated petition that she might be enabled “ from her heart” to 
forgive her aunt Fortune “all her trespasses.” Poor Ellen ! she 
felt it was very hard work. At the very minute she was striving 
to feel at peace with her aunt, one grievance after another would 
start up to remembrance, and she knew the feelings that met them 
were far enough from the spirit of forgiveness. In the midst of 
this she was called down. She rose with tears in her eyes, and 
“ What shall I do?” in her heart. Bowing her head once more 
she earnestly prayed that if she could not yet feel right toward 
her aunt, she might be kept at least from acting or speaking 
wrong. Poor Ellen ! In the heart is the spring of action ; and 
she found it so this morning. 

Her aunt and Mr. Van Brunt were already at the table. Ellen 
took her place in silence, for one look at her aunt’s face told her 
that no “good-morning” would be accepted. Miss Fortune was in 
a particularly bad humour, owing among other things to Mr. Van 
Brunt’s having refused to eat his breakfast unless Ellen were 
called. An unlucky piece of kindness. She neither spoke to 
Ellen nor looked at her; Mr. Van Brunt did what in him lay to 
make amends. He helped her very carefully to the cold pork 
and potatoes, and handed her the well-piled platter of griddle- 
cakes. 

“ Here’s the first buckwheats of the season,” said he, — “and I 
told Miss Fortune I warn’t a going to eat one on ’em if you didn’t 
come down to enjoy ’em along with us. Take two — take two ! — 
you want ’em to keep each other hot.” 

Ellen’s look and smile thanked him, as following his advice she 
covered one generous “ buckwheat” with another as ample. 

“ That’s the thing ! Now here’s some prime maple. You like 
’em, I guess, don’t you ?” 


14 


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“ 1 don’t know yet — I have never seen any,” said Ellen. 

“Never seen buckwheats! why, they’re most as good as my 
mother’s splitters. Buckwheat cakes and maple molasses, — that’s 
food fit for a king, I think — when they’re good; and Miss For- 
tune’s are always first-rate.” 

Miss Fortune did not relent at all at this compliment. 

“What makes you so white this morning?” Mr. Van Brunt 
presently went on ; — “ you ain’t well, be you?” 

“ Yes,” — said Ellen doubtfully, — “ I’m well ” 

“ She’s as well as I am, Mr. Van Brunt, if you don’t go and put 
her up to any notions !” Miss Fortune said in a kind of choked 
voice. 

Mr. Van Brunt hemmed, and said no more to the end of break- 
fast-time. 

Ellen rather dreaded what was to come next, for her aunt’s look 
was ominous. In dead silence the things were put away, and put 
up, and in course of washing and drying, when Miss Fortune sud- 
denly broke forth. 

“ What did you do with yourself yesterday afternoon?” 

“ I was up on the mountain,” said Ellen. 

“ What mountain ?” 

“ I believe they call it the ‘ Nose.’ ” 

“ What business had you up there?” 

“ I hadn’t any business there.” 

“ What did you go there for?” 

“ Nothing.” 

“Nothing ! — you expect me to believe that? you call yourself 
a truth- teller, I suppose ?” 

“ Mamma used to say I was,” said poor Ellen, striving to swallow 
her feelings. 

“ Your mother ! — I dare say — mothers always are blind. I dare 
say she took every thing you said for gospel !” 

Ellen was silent, from sheer want of words that were pointed 
enough to suit her. 

“ I wish Morgan could have had the gumption to marry in his 
own country ; but he must go running after a Scotch woman ! A 
Yankee would have brought up his child to be worth something. 
Give me Yankees !” 

Ellen set down the cup she was wiping. 

“ You don’t know any thing about my mother,” she said. “ You 
oughtn’t to speak so — it’s not right.” 

“ Why ain’t it right, I should like to know?” said Miss Fortune ; 
— “ this is a free country, I guess. Our tongues ain’t tied — we’re 
all free here.” 

“ I wish we were,” muttered Ellen “ I know what I’d do.” 

“ What would you do ?” said Miss Fortune. 


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159 


Ellen was silent. Her aunt repeated the question in a sharper tone. 

“ I oughtn’t to say what I was going to,” said Ellen ; — “ I’d rather 
not.” 

“I don’t care,” said Miss Fortune, “you began, and you shall 
finish it. I will hear what it was.” 

“ I was going to say, if we were all free I would run away.” 

“ Well, that is a beautiful, well-behaved speech ! I am glad to 
have heard it. I admire it very much. Now what were you doing 
yesterday up on the Nose? Please to go on wiping. There’s a 
pile ready for you. What were you doing yesterday afternoon ?” 

Ellen hesitated. 

“Were you alone or with somebody ?” 

“ I was alone part of the time.” 

“ And who were you with the rest of the time?” 

“ Miss Humphreys.” 

“ Miss Humphreys ! — what were you doing with her?” 

“Talking.” 

“ Hid you ever see her before?” 

“ No, ma’am.” 

“ Where did you find her?” 

“ She found me, up on the hill.” 

“ What were you talking about?” 

Ellen was silent. 

“What were you talking about?” repeated Miss Fortune. 

“ I had rather not tell.” 

“ And I had rather you should tell — so out with it.” 

“ I was alone with Miss Humphreys,” said Ellen ; “ and it is no 
matter what we were talking about — it doesn’t concern any body 
but her and me.” 

“Yes it does, it concerns me,” said her aunt, “and I choose to 
know ; — what were you talking about?” 

Ellen was silent. 

“ Will you tell me ?” 

“No,” said Ellen, low but resolutely. 

“ I vow you’re enough to try the patience of Job ! Look here,” 
said Miss Fortune, setting down what she had in her hands, — “ I 
will know ! I don’t care what it was, but you shall tell me or I’ll 
find a way to make you. I’ll give you such a ” 

“ Stop ! stop !” said Ellen wildly, — “you must not speak to me 
so ! Mamma never did, and you have no right to ! If mamma or 
papa were here you would not dare talk to me so.” 

The answer to this was a sharp box on the ear from Miss For- 
tune’s wet hand. Half stunned, less by the blow than the tumult 
of feeling it roused, Ellen stood a moment, and then throwing 
down her towel she ran out of the room, shivering with passion, and 
brushing off the soapy water left on her face as if it had been her 


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aunt’s very hand. Violent tears burst forth as soon as she reached 
her own room, — tears at first of anger and mortification only ; but 
conscience presently began to whisper, “ You are wrong ! you are 
wrong !” — and tears of sorrow mingled with the others. 

“Oh,” said Ellen, “why couldn’t I keep still! — when I had 
resolved so this morning, why couldn’t I be quiet! — But she 
ought not to have provoked me so dreadfully, — I couldn’t help it.” 
“You are wrong,” said conscience again, and her tears flowed 
faster. And then came back her morning trouble — the duty and 
the difficulty of forgiving. Forgive her aunt Fortune ! — with her 
whole heart in a passion of displeasure against her. Alas ! Ellen 
began to feel and acknowledge that indeed all was wrong. But 
what to do ? There was just one comfort, the visit to Miss Hum- 
phreys in the afternoon. “She will tell me,” thought Ellen; 
“she will help me. But in the mean while?” 

Ellen had not much time to think ; her aunt called her down 
and set her to work. She was very busy till dinner-time, and very 
unhappy ; but twenty times in the course of the morning did Ellen # 
pause for a moment, and covering her face with her hands pray 
that a heart to forgive might be given her. 

As soon as possible after dinner she made her escape to her 
room that she might prepare for her walk. Conscience was not 
quite easy that she was going without the knowledge of her aunt. 
She had debated the question with herself, and could not make up 
her mind to hazard losing her visit. 

So she dressed herself very carefully. One of her dark merinos 
was affectionately put on ; her single pair of white stockings ; 
shoes, ruffle, cape, — Ellen saw that all was faultlessly neat, just as 
her mother used to have it ; and the nice blue hood lay upon the 
bed ready to be put on the last thing, when she heard her aunt’s 
voice calling. 

“ Ellen ! — come down and do your ironing — right away, now ! 
the irons are hot.” 

For one moment Ellen stood still in dismay ; then slowly un- 
dressed, dressed again, and went down stairs. 

“ Come ! you’ve been an age,” said Miss Fortune ; “ now make 
haste ; there ain’t but a handful ; and I want to mop up.” 

Ellen took courage again ; ironed away with right good will ; 
and as there was really but a handful of things she had soon done, 
even to taking off the ironing blanket and putting up the irons. 
In the mean time she had changed her mind as to stealing off 
without leave ; conscience was too strong for her ; and though 
with a beating heart, she told of Miss Humphreys’ desire and her 
half engagement. 

“You may go where you like — I am sure I do not care what 
you do with yourself,” was Miss Fortune’s reply. 


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161 


Full of delight at this ungracious permission, Ellen fled up 
stairs, and dressing much quicker than before, was soon on her 
way. 

But at first she went rather sadly. In spite of all her good 
resolves and wishes, every thing that day had gone wrong ; and 
Ellen felt that the root of the evil was in her own heart. Some 
tears fell as she walked. Further from her aunt’s house, however, 
her spirits began to rise ; her foot fell lighter on the greensward. 
Hope and expectation quickened her steps ; and when at length 
she passed the little wood-path it was almost on a run. Not very 
far beyond that her glad eyes saw the house she was in quest of. 

It was a large white house ; not very white either, for its last 
dress of paint had grown old long ago. It stood close by the road, 
and the trees of the wood seemed to throng round it on every side. 
Ellen mounted the few steps that led to the front door, and knocked ; 
but as she could only just reach the high knocker, she was not 
likely to alarm any body with the noise she made. After a great 
many little faint raps, which if any body heard them might easily 
have been mistaken for the attacks of some rat’s teeth upon the 
wainscot, Ellen grew weary of her fruitless toil of standing on tip- 
toe, and resolved, though doubtfully, to go round the house and 
see if there was any other way of getting in. Turning the far 
corner, she saw a long, low out-building or shed jutting out from 
the side of the house. On the further side of this Ellen found an 
elderly woman standing in front of the shed, which was there open 
and paved, and wringing some clothes out of a tub of water. She 
was a pleasant woman to look at, very trim and tidy, and a good- 
humoured eye and smile when she saw Ellen. Ellen made up to 
her and asked for Miss Humphreys. 

“ Why, where in the world did you come from ?” said the woman. 
“ I don’t receive company at the back of the house.” 

“ I knocked at the front door till I was tired,” said Ellen, smiling 
in return. 

“ Miss Alice must ha’ been asleep. Now, honey, you have come 
so far round to find me, will you go a little further and find Miss 
Alice ? Just go round this corner and keep straight along till you 
come-to the glass door — there you’ll find her. Stop ! — maybe she’s 
asleep ; I may as well go along with you myself.” 

She wrung the water from her hands and led the way. 

A little space of green grass stretched in front of the shed, and 
Ellen found it extended all along that side of the house like a very 
narrow lawn ; at the edge of it shot up the high forest trees ; 
nothing between them and the house but the smooth grass and a 
narrow worn foot-path. The woods were now all brown stems, 
except here and there a superb hemlock and some scattered sil- 
very birches. But the grass was still green, and the last day of 
l 14 * 


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the Indian summer hung its soft veil over all ; the foliage of the 
forest was hardly missed. They passed another hall door, opposite 
the one where Ellen had tried her strength and patience upon the 
knocker ; a little further on they paused at the glass door. One 
step led to it. Ellen’s conductress looked in first through one of 
the panes, and then opening the door motioned her to enter. 

“ Here you are, my new acquaintance,” said Alice, smiling and 
kissing her. “ I began to think something was the matter, you 
tarried so late. We don’t keep fashionable hours in the country, 
you know. But I’m very glad to see you. Take off your things 
and lay them on that settee by the door. You see I’ve a settee for 
summer and a sofa for winter ; for here I am, in this room, at all 
times of the year; and a very pleasant room I think it, don’t 
you ?” 

“Yes, indeed I do, ma’am,” said Ellen, pulling off her last 
glove. 

“ Ah, but wait till you have taken tea with me half a dozen times, 
and then see if you don’t say it is pleasant. Nothing can be so 
pleasant that is quite new. But now come here and look out of 
this window, or door, whichever you choose to call it. Do you see 
what a beautiful view I have here ? The wood was just as thick 
all along as it is on the right and left ; I felt half smothered to be 
so shut in, so I got my brother and Thomas to take axes and go to 
work there ; and many a large tree they cut down for me, till you 
see they opened a way through the woods for the view of that 
beautiful stretch of country. I should grow melancholy if I had 
that wall of trees pressing on my vision all the time ; it always 
comforts me to look off, far away, to those distant blue hills.” 

“ Aren’t those the hills I was looking at yesterday ?” said Ellen. 

“From up on the mountain? — the very same; this is part of 
the very same view, and a noble view it is. Every morning, Ellen, 
the sun rising behind those hills shines in through this door and 
lights up my room ; and in winter he looks in at that south window, 
so I have him all the time. To be sure if I want to see him set I 
must take a walk for it, but that isn’t unpleasant; and you know 
we cannot have every thing at once.” 

It was a very beautiful extent of woodland, meadow, and hill, 
that was seen picture-fashion through the gap cut in the forest ; — 
the wall of trees on each side serving as a frame to shut it in, and 
the descent of the mountain, from almost the edge of the lawn, 
being very rapid. The opening had been skilfully cut ; the effect 
was remarkable and very fine ; the light on the picture being often 
quite different from that on the frame or on the hither side of the 
frame. 

“Now, Ellen,” said Alice turning from the window, “ take a 
good look at my room. I want you to know it and feel at home in 


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163 


it; for whenever you can run away from your aunt’s this is your 
home, — do you understand?” 

I A smile was on each face. Ellen felt that she was understand- 
' ing it very fast. 

u Here, next the door, you see, is my summer settee ; and in 
summer it very often walks out of doors to accommodate people on 
I the grass plat. I have a great fancy for taking tea out of doors, 
Ellen, in warm weather ; and if you do not mind a mosquito or 
two I shall be always happy to have your company. That door 
opens into the hall ; look out and see, for I want you to get the 
geography of the house. — That odd-looking, lumbering, painted 
concern, is my cabinet of curiosities. I tried my best to make the 
| carpenter man at Thirl wall understand what sort of a thing I 
! wanted, and did all but show him how to make it ; but as the 
’ southerners say, 1 he hasn’t made it right no how !’ There I keep 
I my dried flowers, my minerals, and a very odd collection of curious 
; things of all sorts that I am constantly picking up. I’ll show you 
I them some day, Ellen. Have you a fancy for curiosities ?” 

“ YeS, ma’am, I believe so.” 

“Believe so! — not more sure than that? Are you a lover of 
dead moths, and empty beetle-skins, and butterflies’ wings, and dry 
| tufts of moss, and curious stones, and pieces of ribbon-grass, and 
strange bird’s nests? These are some of the things I used to de- 
light in when I was about as old as you.” 

“I don’t know, ma’am,” said Ellen. “I never was where I 
could get them.” 

“ Weren’t you ! Poor child ! Then you have been shut up to 
brick walls and paving-stones all your life?” 

“Yes, ma’am, all my life.” 

“But now you have seen a little of the country, — don’t you 
think you shall like it better?” 

“ Oh, a great deal better !” 

“ Ah, that’s right. I am sure you will. On that other side, you 
see, is my winter sofa. It’s a very comfortable resting-place I can 
tell you, Ellen, as I have proved by many a sweet nap ; and its old 
chintz covers are very pleasant to me, for I remember them as far 
back as I remember any thing.” 

There was a sigh here ; but Alice passed on and opened a door 
near the end of the sofa. 

“ Look in here, Ellen ; this is my bedroom.” 

“ Oh, how lovely !” Ellen exclaimed. 

The carpet covered only the middle of the floor ; the rest was 
painted white. The furniture was common but neat as wax. 
Ample curtains of white dimity clothed the three windows, and 
lightly draped the bed. The toilet-table was covered with snow- 
white muslin, and by the toilet-cushion stood, late as it was, a 


164 THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 

glass of flowers. Ellen thought it must be a pleasure to sleep 
there. 

“This,” said Alice when they came out, — “between my door 
and the fireplace, is a cupboard. Here be cups and saucers, and so 
forth. In that other corner beyond the fireplace you see my flower- 
stand. Do you love flowers, Ellen?” 

“ I love them dearly, Miss Alice.’ ’ 

“ 1 have some pretty ones out yet, and shall have one or two in 
the winter; but I can’t keep a great many here; I haven’t room 
for them. I have hard work to save these from frost. There’s a 
beautiful daphne that will be out by and by, and make the whole 
house sweet. But here, Ellen, on this side between the windows, 
is my greatest treasure — my precious books. All these are mine. 
— Now, my dear, it is time to introduce you to my most excellent 
of easy chairs — the best things in the room, aren’t they? Put 
yourself in that — now do you feel at home ?” 

“ Very much indeed, ma’am,” said Ellen laughing, as Alice 
placed her in the deep easy chair. 

There were two things in the room that Alice had not mentioned, 
and while she mended the fire Ellen looked at them. One was the 
portrait of a gentleman, grave and good-looking ; this had very 
little of her attention. The other was the counter-portrait of a 
lady ; a fine dignified countenance that had a charm for Ellen. It 
hung over the fireplace in an excellent light ; and the mild eye and 
somewhat of a peculiar expression about the mouth bore such like- 
ness to Alice, though older, that Ellen had no doubt whose it was. 

Alice presently drew a chair close to Ellen’s side, and kissed her. 

“ 1 trust, my child,” she said, “ that you feel better to-day than 
you did yesterday?” 

“ Oh, I do, ma’am, — a great deal better,” Ellen answered. 

“ Then I hope the reason is that you have returned to your duty, 
and are resolved, not to be a Christian by and by, but to lead a 
Christian’s life now?” 

“ I have resolved so, ma’am, — I did resolve so last night and 
this morning, — but yet I have been doing nothing but wrong all 
to-day.” 

Alice was silent. Ellen’s lips quivered for a moment, and then 
she went on, 

“ Oh, ma’am, how I have wanted to see you to-day to tell me 
what I should do ! I resolved and resolved this morning, and then 
as soon as I got down stairs I began to have bad feelings toward 
aunt Fortune, and I have been full of bad feelings all day ; and I 
couldn’t help it.” 

“ It will not do to say that we cannot help what is wrong, Ellen. 
— What is the reason that you have bad feelings toward your 
aunt?” 


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165 


“ She don’t like me, ma’am.” 

“But how happens that, Ellen? I am afraid you don’t like 
her.” 

“No, ma’am, I don’t to be sure ; how can I?” 

“ Why cannot you, Ellen ?” 

“ Oh, I can’t, ma’am ! I wish I could. But oh, ma’am, I should 
have liked her — I might have liked her, if she had been kind, but 
she never has. Even that first night I came she never kissed me, 
nor said she was glad to see me.” 

“That was failing in kindness certainly, but is she rnkind to 
you, Ellen ?” 

“ Oh, yes, ma’am, indeed she is. She talks to me, and talks to 
me, in a way that almost drives me out of my wits ; and to-day 
she even struck me ! She has no right to do it,” said Ellen, firing 
with passion, — “she has no right to! — and she has no right to 
talk as she does about mamma. She did it to-day, and she has done it 
before ; — I can’t bear it ! — and I can’t bear her ! I’can’t hear her !” 

“ Hush, hush,” said Alice, drawing the excited child to her 
arms, for Ellen had risen from her seat ; — “ you must not talk 
so, Ellen ; — you are not feeling right now.” 

“No, ma’am, I am not,” said Ellen coldly and sadly. She sat 
a moment, and then turning to her companion put both arms round 
her neck, and hid her face on her shoulder again ; and without 
raising it she gave her the history of the morning. 

“What has brought about this dreadful state of things?” said 
Alice after a few minutes. “ Whose fault is it, Ellen?” 

“I think it is aunt Fortune’s fault,” said Ellen raising her 
head; “ I don’t think it is mine. If she had behaved well to me 
I should have behaved well to her. I meant to, I am sure.” 

“ Do you mean to say you do not think you have been in fault 
at all in the matter?” 

“No, ma’am — I do not mean to say that. I have been very 
much in fault — very often — I know that. I get very angry and 
vexed, and sometimes I say nothing, but sometimes I get out of all 
patience and say things I ought not. I did so to-day ; but it is so 
very hard to keep still when I am in such a passion : — and now I 
have got to feel so toward aunt Fortune that I don’t like the sight 
of her ; I hate J;he very look of her bonnet hanging up on the 
wall. I know it isn’t right; and it makes me miserable; and I 
can’t help it, for I grow worse and worse every day ; — and what 
shall I do?” 

Ellen’s tears came faster than her words. 

“ Ellen, my child,” said Alice after a while, — “ There is but one 
way. You know what I said to you yesterday ?” 

“ I know it, but dear Miss Alice, in my reading this morning I 
came to that verse that speaks about not being forgiven if we do 


166 


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not forgive others ; and oh ! how it troubles me ; for I can t feel 
that I forgive aunt Fortune ; I feel vexed whenever the thought 
of her comes into my head ; and how can I behave right to her 
while I feel so?” 

“ You are right there, my dear; you cannot indeed; the heart 
must be set right before the life can be.” 

“ But what shall I do to set it right?” 

“ Pray.” 

“ Dear Miss Alice, I have been praying all this morning that I 
might forgive aunt Fortune, and yet I cannot do it.” 

“ Pray, still, my dear,” said Alice, pressing her closer in her 
arms, — “ pray still ; if you are in earnest the answer will come. 
But there is something else you can do, and must do, Ellen, besides 
praying, or praying may be in vain.” 

“ What do you mean, Miss Alice?” 

“ You acknowledge yourself in fault — have you made all the 
amends you can ? Have you, as soon as you have seen yourself in 
the wrong, gone to your aunt Fortune and acknowledged it, and 
humbly asked her pardon ?’ ’ 

Ellen answered “ no” in a low voice. 

“ Then, my child, your duty is plain before you. The next thing 
after doing wrong is to make all the amends in your power ; confess 
your fault, and ask forgiveness, both of God and man. Pride 
struggles against it, — I see yours does, — but my child, 1 God re- 
sisteth the proud, but giveth grace unto the humble.’ ” 

Ellen burst into tears and cried heartily. 

“ Mind your own wrong doings, my child, and you will not be 
half so disposed to quarrel with those of other people. But, Ellen 
dear, if you will not humble yourself to this you must not count 
upon an answer to your prayer. 1 If thou bring thy gift to the 
altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath aught against 
thee,’ — what then ? — ‘ Leave there thy gift before the altar ;’ go 
first and be reconciled to thy brother, and then come.” 

“ But it is so hard to forgive ?” sobbed Ellen. 

“ Hard ? yes it is hard when our hearts are so. But there is 
little love to Christ and no just sense of his love to us in the heart 
that finds it hard. Pride and selfishness make it hard ; the heart 
full of love to the dear Saviour cannot lay up offences against itself.” 

“I have said quite enough,” said Alice after a pause; “you 
know what you want, my dear Ellen, and what you ought to do. 
I shall leave you for a little while to change my dress, for I have 
been walking and riding all the morning. Make a good use of the 
time while I am gone.” 

Ellen did make good use of the time. When Alice returned she 
met her with another face than she had worn all that day, humbler 
and quieter ; and flinging her arms around her, she said, 


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167 


“I will ask aunt Fortune’s forgiveness; — I feel I can do it 
now.” 

“And how about forgiving , Ellen?” 

“ I think Grod will help me to forgive her,” said Ellen ; “I have 
asked him. At any rate I will ask her to forgive me. But oh, 
Miss Alice ! what would have become of me without you, ” 

“Don’t lean upon me, dear Ellen; remember you have a better 
friend than I always near you ; trust in him ; if I have done you 
any good, don’t forget it was he brought me to you yesterday 
afternoon.’ ’ 

“ There’s just one thing that troubles me now,” said Ellen, — 
“ mamma’ s letter. I am thinking of it all the time ; I feel as if I 
should fly to get it !’ ’ 

“We’ll see about that. Cannot you ask your aunt for it?” 

“ I don’t like to.” 

“ Take care, Ellen ; there is some pride there yet.” 

“Well, I will try,” said Ellen, “but sometimes, I know, she 
would not give it to me if I were to ask her. But I’ll try, if I 
can.” 

“ Well, now to change the subject — at what o’clock did you dine 
to-day ?’ ’ 

“ I don’t know, ma’am, — at the same time we always do, I 
believe.” 

“ And that is twelve o’clock, isn’t it?” 

“ Yes, ma’am ; but I was so full of coming here and other things 
that I couldn’t eat.” 

“ Then I suppose you would have no objection to an early tea?” 

“No, ma’am, — whenever you please,” said Ellen laughing. 

“ I shall please it pretty soon. I have had no dinner at all to- 
day, Ellen ; I have been out and about all the morning, and had 
just taken a little nap when you came in. Come this way and let 
me show you some of my housekeeping.” 

She led the way across the hall to the room on the opposite side ; 
a large, well-appointed, and spotlessly neat kitchen. Ellen could not 
help exclaiming at its pleasantness. 

“ Why, yes — I think it is. I have been in many a parlour that 
I do not like as well. Beyond this is a lower kitchen where Mar- 
gery does all her rough work ; nothing comes up the steps that 
lead from that to this but the very nicest and daintiest of kitchen 
matters. Margery, is my father gone to Thirlwall ?” 

“ No, Miss Alice — he’s at Carra-carra — Thomas heard him say 
he wouldn’t be back early.” 

“ Well, I shall not wait for him. Margery, if you will put the 
kettle on and see to the fire, I’ll make some of my cakes for tea.” 

“I’ll do it, Miss Alice; it’s not good for you to go so long 
without eating.” 


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Alice now rolled up her sleeves above the elbows, and tying a 
large white apron before her, set about gathering the different 
things she wanted for her work, — to Ellen’s great amusement. A 
white moulding-board was placed upon a table as white ; and round 
it soon grouped the pail of flour, the plate of nice yellow butter, 
the bowl of cream, the sieve, tray, and sundry etceteras. And 
then, first sifting some flour into the tray, Alice began to throw in 
the other things one after another and toss the whole about with a 
carelessness that looked as if all would go wrong, but with a con- 
fidence that seemed to say all was going right. Ellen gazed in 
comical wonderment. 

“ Did you think cakes were made without hands?” said Alice, 
laughing at her look. “ You saw me wash mine before I 
began.” 

“Oh, I’m not thinking of that,” said Ellen; “I am not afraid 
of your hands.” 

“ Did you never see your mother do this ?” said Alice, who was 
now turning and rolling about the dough upon the board in a way 
that seemed to Ellen curious beyond expression. 

“No, never,” she said. “Mamma never kept house, and I 
never saw any body do it.” 

“ Then your aunt does not let you into the mysteries of bread- 
and butter-making !” 

“ Butter-making ! Oh,” said Ellen with a sigh, “ I have enough 
of that l” 

Alice now applied a smooth wooden roller to the cake, with 
such quickness and skill that the lump forthwith lay spread upon 
the board in a thin even layer, and she next cut it into little 
round cakes with the edge of a tumbler. Half the board was 
covered with the nice little white things, which Ellen declared 
looked good enough to eat already, and she had quite forgotten all 
possible causes of vexation, past, present, or future, — when sud- 
denly a large grey cat jumped upon the table, and coolly walking 
upon the moulding-board planted his paw directly in the middle of 
one of his mistress’s cakes. 

“Take him off — Oh, Ellen !” cried Alice, — “take him off! I 
can’t touch him.” 

But Ellen was a little afraid. 

Alice then tried gently to shove puss off with her elbow ; but 
he seemed to think that was very good fun, — purred, whisked 
his great tail over Alice’s bare arm, and rubbed his head against 
it, having evidently no notion that he was not just where he 
ought to be. Alice and Ellen were too much amused to try 
any violent method of relief, but Margery happily coming in 
seized puss in both hands and set him on the floor. 

“ Just look at the print of his paw in that cake,” said Ellen. 


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169 


“ He has set his mark on it certainly. I think it is his now, by 
the right of possession if not the right of discovery.” 

“ I think he discovered the cakes too,” said Ellen laughing. 

“ Why, yes. He shall have that one baked for his supper.” 
“Does he like cakes?” 

‘‘ Indeed he does. He is very particular and delicate about his 
eating, is Captain Parry.” 

“ Captain Parry !” said Ellen, — “ is that his name ?” 



“Yes,” said Alice laughing; “I don’t wonder you look aston- 
ished, Ellen. I have had that cat five years, and when he was 
first given me by my brother Jack, who was younger then than he 
is now, and had been reading Captain Parry’s Voyages, he gave him 
that name and would have him called so. Oh, Jack !” — said Alice, 
half laughing and half crying. 

Ellen wondered why. But she went to wash her hands, and 
when her face was again turned to Ellen it was unruffled as 
ever. 

“Margery, my cakes are ready,” said she, “and Ellen and I are 
ready too.” 

H 


15 


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“ Very well, Miss Alice — the kettle is just going to boil; you 
shall have tea in a trice. I’ll do some eggs for you.” 

“Something — any thing,” said Alice; “I feel one cannot live 
without eating. Come, Ellen, you and I will go and set the tea- 
table.” 

Ellen was very happy arranging the cups and saucers and other 
things that Alice handed her from the cupboard ; and when a few 
minutes after the tea and the cakes came in, and she and Alice were 
cosily seated at supper, poor Ellen hardly knew herself in such a 
pleasant state of things. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

The very sooth of it is, that an ill-habit has the force of an ill-fate. 

L’Estrange. 

“ Ellen dear,” said Alice as she poured out Ellen’s second cup 
of tea, “ have we run through the list of your troubles ?” 

“ Oh, no, Miss Alice, indeed we haven’t ; but we have got 
through the worst.” 

“ Is the next one so bad it would spoil our supper?” 

“No,” said Ellen, “it couldn’t do that, but it’s bad enough 
though; it’s about my not going to school. Miss Alice, I prom- 
ised myself I would learn so much while mamma was away, and 
surprise her when she came back, and instead of that I am not 
learning any thing. I don’t mean not learning any thing” said 
Ellen correcting herself ; — “ but I can’t do much. When I found 
aunt Fortune wasn’t going to send me to school I determined I 
would try to study by myself ; and I have tried ; but I can’t get 
along.” 

“Well now don’t lay down your knife and fork and look so dole- 
ful,” said Alice smiling; “this is a matter I can help you in. 
What are you studying ?’ ’ 

“ Some things I can manage well enough,” said Ellen, “ the easy 
things ; but I cannot understand my arithmetic without some one 
to explain it to me, and French I can do nothing at all with, and 
that is what I wanted to learn most of all ; and often I want to ask 
questions about my history.” 

“Suppose,” said Alice, “you go on studying by yourself as 
much and as well as you can, and bring your books up to me two 
or three times a week ; I will hear and explain and answer ques- 
tions to your heart’s content, unless you should be too hard for 
me. What do you say to that ?” 


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171 


Ellen said nothing to it, but the colour that rushed to her cheeks, 
— the surprised look of delight, — were answer enough. 

u It will do then,” said Alice, “and I have no doubt we shall 
untie the knot of those arithmetical problems very soon. But, 
Ellen, my dear, I cannot help you in French, for I do not know it 
myself? What will you do about that?” 

“ I don’t know, ma’am ; I am sorry.” 

“ So am I, for your sake. I can help you in Latin, if that would 
be any comfort to you.” 

“ It wouldn’t be much comfort to me,” said Ellen, laughing ; 
“mamma wanted me to learn Latin, but I wanted to learn French 
a great deal more ; I don’t care about Latin, except to please 
her.” 

“ Permit me to ask if you know English?” 

“ Oh, yes, ma’am, I hope so ; I knew that a great while ago.” 

“ Bid you ? I am very happy to make your acquaintance then, 
for the number of young ladies who do know English is in my 
opinion remarkably small. Are you sure of the fact, Ellen ?” 

“ Why yes, Miss Alice.” 

“Will you undertake to write me a note of two pages that shall 
not have one fault of grammar, nor one word spelt wrong, nor any 
thing in it that is not good English? You may take for a subject 
the history of this afternoon.” 

“Yes, ma’am, if you wish it. I hope I can write a note that 
long without making mistakes.” 

Alice smiled. 

“I will not stop to inquire,” she said, “ whether that long is 
Latin or French ; but Ellen, my dear, it is not English.” 

Ellen blushed a little, though she laughed too. 

“ I believe I have got into the way of saying that by hearing 
aunt Fortune and Mr. Van Brunt say it; I don’t think I ever did 
before I came here.” 

“ What are you so anxious to learn French for ?” 

“ Mamma knows it, and I have often heard her talk French with 
a great many people ; and papa and I always wanted to be able to 
talk it too ; and mamma wanted me to learn it ; she said there were 
a great many French books I ought to read.” 

“ That last is true, no doubt. Ellen, I will make a bargain with 
you, — if you will study English with me, I will study French with 
you.” 

“Bear Miss Alice,” said Ellen, caressing her, “ I’ll do it with- 
out that; I’ll study any thing you please.” 

“ Bear Ellen, I believe you would. But I should like to know 
it for my own sake ; we’ll study it together ; we shall get along 
nicely, I have no doubt ; we can learn to read it, at least, and that 
is the main point.” 


172 THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 

u But how shall we know what to call the words?” said Ellen, 
doubtfully. 

“ That is a grave question,” said Alice, smiling. “ I am afraid 
we should hit upon a style of pronunciation that a Frenchman 
would make nothing of. I have it !” she exclaimed, clapping her 
hands, — “ where there’s a will there’s a way, — it always happens 
so. Ellen, I have an old friend upon the mountain who will give 
us exactly what we want, unless I am greatly mistaken. We’ll go 
and see her ; that is the very thing ! — my old friend Mrs. Yawse.” 

“ Mrs. Yawse !” repeated Ellen ; — “ not the grandmother of that 
Nancy Yawse?” 

“ The very same. Her name is not Yawse ; the country people 
call it so, and I being one of the country people have fallen into 
the way of it ; but her real name is Yosier. She was born a Swiss, 
and brought up in a wealthy French family, as the personal at- 
tendant of a young lady to whom she became exceedingly attached. 
This lady finally married an American gentleman ; and so great 
was Mrs. Yawse’ s love to her, that she left country and family to 
follow her here. In a few years her mistress died ; she married ; 
and since that time she has been tossed from trouble to trouble ; — 
a perfect sea of troubles ; — till now she is left like a wreck upon 
this mountain top. A fine wreck she is ! I go to see her very 
often, and next time I will call for you, and we will propose our 
French plan ; nothing will please her better, I know. By the way, 
Ellen, are you as well versed in the other common branches of 
education as you are in your mother tongue ?” 

“ What do you mean, Miss Alice?” 

“ Geography, for instance ; do you know it well ?” 

“ Yes, ma’am ; I believe so ; I am sure I have studied it till I 
am sick of it.” 

“ Can you give me the boundaries of Great Thibet or Peru ?” 

Ellen hesitated. 

“ I had rather not try,” she said, — “I am not sure. I can’t 
remember those queer countries in Asia and South America half 
so well as Europe and North America.” 

“ Bo you know any thing about the surface of the country in 
Italy or France ; the character and condition of the people ; what 
kind of climate they have, and what grows there most freely?” 

“ Why no, ma’am,” said Ellen ; “ nobody ever taught me that.” 

“ Would you like to go over the Atlas again, talking about all 
these matters, as well as the mere outlines of the countries you 
have studied before?” 

“ Oh, yes, dearly !” exclaimed Ellen. 

“ Well, I think we may let Margery have the tea-things. But 
here is Captain’s cake.” 

“ Oh, may I give him his supper ?” said Ellen. 


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173 


“ Certainly. You must carve it for him ; you know I told you 
he is very particular. Give him some of the egg, too — he likes 
that. Now where is the Captain?” 

Not far off ; for scarcely had Alice opened the door and called 
him once or twice, when with a queer little note of answer, he 
came hurriedly trotting in. 

“ He generally has his supper in the outer kitchen,” said Alice, 
— “ but I grant him leave to have it here to-night as a particular 
honour to him and you.” 

“ How handsome he is ! and how large !” said Ellen. 

“ Yes, he is very handsome, and more than that he is very 
sensible, for a cat. Do you see how prettily his paws are marked ? 
Jack used to say he had white gloves on.” 

“ And white boots too,” said Ellen. “No, only one leg is 
white; pussy’s boots aren’t mates. Is he good-natured?” 

“ Very — if you don’t meddle with him.” 

“I don’t call that being good-natured,” said Ellen laughing. 

“ Nor I; but truth obliges me to say the Captain does not per- 
mit any body to take liberties with him. He is a character, 
Captain Parry. Come out on the lawn, Ellen, and we will let 
Margery clear away.” 

“What a pleasant face Margery has,” said Ellen, as the door 
closed behind them ; “ and what a pleasant way she has of speaking. 
I like to hear her, — the words come out so clear, and I don’t 
know how, but not like other people.” 

“ You have a quick ear, Ellen ; you are very right. Margery 
had lived too long in England before she came here to lose her 
trick of speech afterwards. But Thomas speaks as thick as a 
Yankee, and always did.” 

“ Then Margery is English?” said Ellen. 

“To be sure. She came over with us twelve years ago for the 
pure love of my father and mother ; and I believe now she looks 
upon John and me as her own children. I think she could 
scarcely love us more if we were so in truth. Thomas — you 
haven’t seen Thomas yet, have you ?” 

“ No.” 

“ He is an excellent good man in his way, and as faithful as the 
day is long ; but he isn’t equal to his wife. Perhaps I am partial ; 
Margery came to America for the love of us, and Thomas came 
for the love of Margery; there’s a difference.” 

“ But, Miss Alice ! — ” 

“ What, Miss Ellen?” 

“ You said Margery came over with you f” 

“ Yes ; is that what makes you look so astonished ?” 

“ But then you are English, too ?” 

“Well, what of that? you won’t love me the less, will you?” 

15 * 


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“Oh, no,” said Ellen; “my own mother came from Scotland, 
aunt Fortune says.” 

“ I am English born, Ellen, but you may count me half Ameri- 
can if you like, for I have spent rather more than half my life 
here. Come this way, Ellen, and I’ll show you my garden. It is 
some distance off, but as near as a spot could be found fit for it.” 

They quitted the house by a little steep path leading down the 
mountain, which in two or three minutes brought them to a clear 
bit of ground. It was not large, but lying very prettily among 
the trees, with an open view to the east and southeast. On the 
extreme edge and at the lower end of it was fixed a rude bench, 
well sheltered by the towering forest trees. Here Alice and Ellen 
sat down. 

It was near sunset ; the air cool and sweet ; the evening light 
upon field and sky. 

“ How fair it is !” said Alice musingly ; “ how fair and lovely ! 
Look at those long shadows of the mountains, Ellen ; and how 
bright the light is on the far hills. It won’t be so long. A little 
while more, and our Indian summer will be over ; and then the 
clouds, the frost, and the wind, and the snow. Well, let them 
come.” 

“I wish they wouldn’t, I am sure,” said Ellen. “I am sorry 
enough they are coming.” 

“ Why ? — all seasons have their pleasures. I am not sorry at 
all ; I like the cold very much.” 

“ I guess you wouldn’t, Miss Alice, if you had to wash every 
morning where I do.” 

“ Why, where is that ?” 

“ Down at the spout.” 

“ At the spout — what is that, pray ?” 

“The spout of water, ma’am, just down a little way from the 
kitchen door. The water comes in a little long, very long, trough 
from a spring at the back of the pig-field, and at the end of the 
trough, where it pours out, is the spout.” 

“ Have you no conveniences for washing in your room?” 

“Not a sign of such a thing, ma’am. I have washed at the 
spout ever since I have been here,” said Ellen, laughing in spite of 
her vexation. 

“ And do the pigs share the water with you?” 

“ The pigs? Oh, no, ma’am ; the trough is raised up from the 
ground on little heaps of stones; they can’t get at the water, — 
unless they drink at the spring, and I don’t think they do that, so 
many big stones stand around it.” 

“ Well, Ellen, I must say that is rather uncomfortable, even 
without any danger of four-footed society.” 

“It isn’t so bad just now,” said Ellen, “in this warm weather, 


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175 


but in that cold time we had a week or two back, do you remember, 
Miss Alice? — just before the Indian summer began? — oh, how 
disagreeable it was ! Early in the morning, you know, — the sun 
scarcely up, and the cold wind blowing my hair and my clothes all 
about ; and then that board before the spout, that I have to stand 
on, is always kept wet by the spattering of the water, and it’s muddy 
besides and very slippery, — there’s a kind of green stuff comes 
upon it* and I can’t stoop down for fear of muddying myself; I 
have to tuck my clothes round me and bend over as well as I can, 
and fetch up a little water to my face in the hollow of my hand, 
and of course I have to do that a great many times before I get 
enough. I can’t help laughing,” said Ellen, “ but it isn’t a laugh- 
ing matter for all that.” 

“ So you wash your face in your hands and have no pitcher but 
a long wooden trough ? — Poor child ! I am sorry for you ; I think 
you must have some other way of managing before the snow 
comes.” 

“ The water is bitter cold already,” said Ellen, “it’s the coldest 
water I ever saw. Mamma gave me a nice dressing-box before I 
came away, but I found very soon this was a queer place for a 
dressing-box to come to. Why, Miss Alice, if I take out my brush 
or comb I haven’t any table to lay them on but one that’s too high, 
and my poor dressing-box has to stay on the floor. And I haven’t 
a sign of a bureau, — all my things are tumbling about in my 
trunk.” 

“ 1 think if I were in your place I would not permit that at any 
rate,” said Alice; “ if my things were confined to my trunk I 
would have them keep good order there at least.” 

“Well, so they do,” said Ellen, — “pretty good order; I didn’t 
mean ‘ tumbling about’ exactly.” 

u Always try to say what you mean exactly .” 

“ But now, Ellen, love, do you know I must send you away ? 
Do you see the sunlight has quitted those distant hills ? and it will 
be quite gone soon. You must hasten home.” 

Ellen made no answer. Alice had taken her on her lap again, 
and she was nestling there with her friend’s arms wrapped around 
her. Both were quite still for a minute. 

“ Next week, if nothing happens, we will begin to be busy with 
our books. You shall come to me Tuesday and Friday ; and all 
the other days you must study as hard as you can at home, for I 
am very particular, I forewarn you.” 

“ But suppose aunt Fortune should not let me come ?” said 
Ellen without stirring. 

“Oh, she will. You need not speak about it; I’ll come down 
and ask her myself, and nobody ever refuses me any thing.” 

“ I shouldn’t think they would,” said Ellen. 


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“Then don’t you set the first example,” said Alice laughingly. 
“ I ask you to be cheerful and happy and grow wiser and better 
every day.” 

“ Dear Miss Alice ! — How can I promise that?” 

“ Dear Ellen, it is very easy. There is One who has promised 
to hear and answer you when you cry to him ; he will make you 
in his own likeness again ; and to know and love him and not be 
happy, is impossible. That blessed Saviour !” — said Alice, — “ oh, 
what should you and I do without him, Ellen ? — 1 as rivers of 
waters in a dry place ; as the shadow of a great rock in a weary 
land — how beautiful ! how true ! how often I think of that.” 

Ellen was silent, though entering into the feeling of the words. 

“ Remember him dear Ellen ; — remember your best friend. 
Learn more of Christ, our dear Saviour, and you can’t help but 
be happy. Never fancy you are helpless and friendless while you 
have him to go to. Whenever you feel wearied and sorry, flee to 
the shadow of that great rock ; will you ? — and do you understand 
me?” 

“Yes, ma’am, — yes, ma’am,” said Ellen, as she lifted her lips 
to kiss her friend. Alice heartily returned the kiss, and pressing 
Ellen in her arms said, 

“ Now Ellen, dear, you must go ; I dare not keep you any 
longer. It will be too late now, I fear, before you reach home.” 

Quick they mounted the little path again, and soon were at the 
house ; and Ellen was putting on her things. 

“Next Tuesday remember, — but before that! Sunday, — you are 
to spend Sunday with me ; come bright and early.” 

“ How early ?” 

“Oh, as early as you please — before breakfast — and our Sunday 
morning breakfasts aren’t late, Ellen ; we have to set off betimes 
to go to church.” 

Kisses and good-by’s ; and then Ellen was running down the 
road at a great rate, for twilight was beginning to gather, and she 
had a good way to go. 

She ran till out of breath ; then walked a while to gather 
breath ; then ran again. Running down hill is a pretty quick 
way of travelling; so before very long she saw her aunt’s house 
at a distance. She walked now. She had come all the way in 
good spirits, though with a sense upon her mind of something 
disagreeable to come ; when she saw the house this disagreeable 
something swallowed up all her thoughts, and she walked leisurely 
on, pondering what she had to do and what she was like to meet 
in the doing of it. 

“ If aunt Fortune should be in a bad humour — and say some- 
thing to vex me— but I’ll not be vexed. But it will be very hard 
to help it ; — but I will not be vexed ; — I have done wrong, and I’ll 


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177 


tell her so, and ask her to forgive me ; — it will be hard, — but I’ll 
do it — I’ll say what I ought to say, and then however she takes it 
I shall have the comfort of knowing I have done right.” “ But,” 
said conscience, “ you must not say it stiffly and proudly ; you 
must say it humbly and as if you really felt and meant it.” “I 
will,” said Ellen. 

She paused in the shed and looked through the window to see 
what was the promise of things within. Not good ; her aunt’s 
step sounded heavy and ominous ; Ellen guessed she was not in a 
pleasant state of mind. She opened the door, — no doubt of it, — 
the whole air of Miss Fortune’s figure, to the very handkerchief 
that was tied round her head, spoke displeasure. 

“ She isn’t in a good mood,” said Ellen, as she went up stairs to 
leave her bonnet and cape there ; — “ I never knew her to be good- 
humoured when she had that handkerchief on.” 

She returned to the kitchen immediately. Her aunt was 
busied in washing and wiping the dishes. 

“ I have come home rather late,” said Ellen pleasantly ; — “ shall 
I help you, aunt Fortune?” 

Her aunt cast a look at her. 

“ Yes, you may help me. Go and put on a pair of white 
gloves and a silk apron, and then you’ll be ready.” 

Ellen looked down at herself. “ Oh, my merino ! I forgot about 
that. I’ll go and change it.” 

Miss Fortune said nothing, and Ellen went. 

When she came back the things were all wiped, and as she 
was about to put some of them away, her aunt took them out of 
her hands, bidding her “ go and sit down !” 

Ellen obeyed and was mute ; while Miss Fortune dashed round 
with a display of energy there seemed to be no particular call for, 
and speedily had every thing in its place and all straight and 
square about the kitchen. When she was, as a last thing, brush- 
ing the crumbs from the floor into the fire she broke the silence 
again. The old grandmother sat in the chimney corner, but she 
seldom was very talkative in the presence of her stern daughter. 

“ What did you come home for to-night? Why didn’t you stay 
at Mr. Humphreys’ ?” 

“ Miss Alice didn’t ask me.” 

“ That means I suppose that you would if she had?” 

“I don’t know, ma’am; Miss Alice wouldn’t have asked me to 
do any thing that wasn’t right.” 

“ Oh, no ! — of course not ; — Miss Alice is a piece of perfection ; 
every body says so ; and I suppose you’d sing the same song who 
haven’t seen her three times.” 

“Indeed I would,” said Ellen; “ I could have told that in one 
seeing. I’d do any thing in the world for Miss Alice.” 
m 


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“ Ay — I dare say — that’s the way of it. You can show not one 
bit of goodness or pleasantness to the person that does the most 
for you and has all the care of you, — but the first stranger that 
comes along you can be all honey to them, and make yourself out 
too good for common folks, and go and tell great tales how you 
are used at home I suppose. I am sick of it !” said Miss Fortune, 
setting up the andirons and throwing the tongs and shovel into 
the corner, in a way that made the iron ring again. “ One might 
as good be a stepmother at once, and done with it ! Come, mother, 
it’s time for you to go to bed.” 

The old lady rose with the meekness of habitual submission, and 
went up stairs with her daughter. Ellen had time to bethink her- 
self while they were gone, and resolved to lose no time when her 
aunt came back in doing what she had to do. She would fain have 
persuaded herself to put it off. “It is late,” she said to herself, 
“ it isn’t a good time. It will be better to go to bed now, and ask 
aunt Fortune’s pardon to-morrow.” But conscience said, “ First 
be reconciled to thy brother.” 

Miss Fortune came down stairs presently. But before Ellen 
could get any words out, her aunt prevented her. 

“Come, light your candle and be off; I want you out of the 
way ; I can’t do any thing with half a dozen people about.” 

Ellen rose. “ I want to say something to you first, aunt Fortune.” 

“ Say it and be quick ; I haven’t time to stand talking.” 

“Aunt Fortune,” said Ellen, stumbling over her words, — “I 
want to tell you that I know I was wrong this morning, and I am 
sorry, and I hope you’ll forgive me.” 

A kind of indignant laugh escaped from Miss Fortune’s lips. 

“It’s easy talking ; I’d rather have acting. I’d rather see peo- 
ple mend their ways than stand ancl make speeches about them. 
Being sorry don’t help the matter much.” 

“ But I will try not to do so any more,” said Ellen. 

“ When I see you don’t I shall begin to think there is something 
in it. Actions speak louder than words. I don’t believe in this 
jumping into goodness all at once.” 

“ Well, I will try not to, at any rate,” said Ellen sighing. 

“ I shall be very glad to see it. What has brought you into this 
sudden fit of dutifulness and fine talking?” 

“ Miss Alice told me I ought to ask your pardon for what I had 
done wrong,” said Ellen, scarce able to keep from crying; “ and I 
know I did wrong this morning, and I did wrong the other day 
about the letter; and I am sorry, whether you believe it or no.” 

“ Miss Alice told you, did she ? So all this is to please Miss 
Alice. I suppose you were afraid your friend Miss Alice would 
hear of some of your goings on, and thought you had better make 
up with me. Is that it?” 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 179 

Ellen answered, “ No, ma’am,” in a low tone, but had no voice 
to say more. 

“ I wish Miss Alice would look after her own affairs, and let 
other people’s houses alone. That’s always the way with your 
pieces of perfection ; — they’re eternally finding out something that 
isn’t as it ought to be among their neighbours. I think people 
that don’t set up for being quite such great things get along quite 
as well in the world.” 

Ellen was strongly tempted to reply, but kept her lips shut. 

“I’ll tell you what,” said Miss Fortune, — “if you want me to 
believe that all this talk means something I’ll tell you what you 
shall do, — you shall just tell Mr. Van Brunt to-morrow about it 
all, and how ugly you have been these two days, and let him 
know you were wrong and I was right. I believe he thinks you 
cannot do any thing wrong, and I should like him to know it for 
once.” 

Ellen struggled hard with herself before she could speak ; Miss 
Fortune’s lips began to wear a scornful smile. 

“I’ll tell him!” said Ellen, at length; “I’ll tell him I was 
wrong, if you wish me to.” 

“I do wish it. I like people’s eyes to be opened. It’ll do him 
good, I guess, and you too. Now, have you any thing more to 
say?” 

Ellen hesitated ; — the colour came and went ; — she knew it 
wasn’t a good time, but how could she wait? 

“Aunt Fortune,” she said, “you know I told you I behaved 
very ill about that letter, — won’t you forgive me?” 

“ Forgive you ? yes, child ; I don’t care any thing about it.” 

“ Then you will be so good as to let me have my letter again?” 
said Ellen, timidly. 

“Oh, I can’t be bothered to look for it now; I’ll see about it 
some other time ; take your candle and go to bed now if you’ve 
nothing more to say.” 

Ellen took her candle and went. Some tears were wrung from 
her by hurt feeling and disappointment ; but she had the smile of 
conscience, and as she believed of Him whose witness conscience 
is. She remembered that “ great rock in a weary land,” and she 
went to sleep in the shadow of it. 

The next day was Saturday. Ellen was up early, and after 
carefully, performing her toilet duties, she had a nice long hour 
before it was time to go down stairs. The use she made of 
this hour had fitted her to do cheerfully and well her morning 
work ; and Ellen would have sat down to breakfast in excellent 
spirits if it had not been for her promised disclosure to Mr. Yan 
Brunt. It vexed her a little. “ I told aunt Fortune, — that was 
all right; but why I should be obliged to tell Mr. Yan Brunt I 


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don’t know. But if it convinces aunt Fortune that I am in earnest, 
and meant what I say? — then I had better.” 

Mr. Van Brunt looked uncommonly grave, she thought ; her 
aunt, uncommonly satisfied. Ellen had more than half a guess at 
the reason of both ; but make up her mind to speak, she could not, 
during all breakfast time. She eat without knowing what she was 
eating. 

Mr. Yan Brunt at length, having finished his meal without say- 
ing a syllable, arose and was about to go forth, when Miss Fortune 
stopped him. “ Wait a minute, Mr. Yan Brunt,” she said, “ Ellen 
has something to say to you. Glo ahead, Ellen.” 

Ellen felt , rather than saw, the smile with which these words 
were spoken. She crimsoned and hesitated. 

“Ellen and I had some trouble yesterday,” said Miss Fortune, 
“ and she wants to tell you about it.” 

Mr. Yan Brunt stood gravely waiting. 

Ellen raised her eyes, which were full, to his face. “ Mr. Yan 
Brunt,” she said, “ aunt Fortune wants me to tell you what I told 
her last night, — that I knew I behaved as I ought not to her yes- 
terday, and the day before, and other times.” 

“ And what made you do that?” said Mr. Yan Brunt. 

“Tell him,” said Miss Fortune, colouring, “that you were in 
the wrong and I was in the right — then he’ll believe it, I suppose.” 

“ I was wrong,” said Ellen. 

“ And I was right,” said Miss Fortune. 

Ellen was silent. Mr. Yan Brunt looked from one to the other. 

“ Speak,” said Miss Fortune ; “ tell him the whole if you mean 
what you say.” 

“ I can’t,” said Ellen. 

“Why, you said you were wrong,” said Miss Fortune; “that’s 
only half of the business ; if you were wrong I was right ; why 
don’t you say so, and not make such a shilly-shally piece of work 
of it?” 

“ I said I was wrong,” said Ellen, “ and so I was ; but I never 
said you were right, aunt Fortune, and I don’t think so.” 

These words, though moderately spoken, were enough to put 
Miss Fortune in a rage. 

“ What did I do that was wrong?” she said ; “ come, I should 
like to know. What was it, Ellen ? Out with it ; say every thing 
you can think of; stop and hear it, Mr. Van Brunt; come, Ellen, 
let’s hear the whole !” 

“ Thank you, ma’am, I’ve heerd quite enough,” said that gentle- 
man, as he went out and closed the door. 

“ And I have said too much,” said Ellen. “ Pray, forgive me, 
aunt Fortune. I shouldn’t have said that if you hadn’t pressed 
me so ; I forgot myself a moment. I am sorry I said that.” 


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181 


“Forgot yourself!” said Miss Fortune ; “I wish you’d forget 
yourself out of my house. Please to forget the place where I am 
for to-day, anyhow ; I’ve got enough of you for one while. You 
had better go to Miss Alice and get a new lesson ; and tell her you 
are coming on finely.” 

Gladly would Ellen indeed have gone to Miss Alice, but as the 
next day was Sunday she thought it best to wait. She went sorrow- 
fully to her own room. “ Why couldn’t I be quiet?” said Ellen. 
“ If I had only held my tongue that unfortunate minute ! what 
possessed me to say that?” 

Strong passion — strong pride, — both long unbroken ; and Ellen 
had yet to learn that many a prayer and many a tear, much watch- 
fulness, much help from on high, must be hers before she could be 
thoroughly dispossessed of these evil spirits. But she knew her 
sickness ; she had applied to the Physician ; — she was in a fair way 
to be well. 

One thought in her solitary room that day drew streams of tears 
down Ellen’s cheeks. “ My letter — my letter ! what shall I do to 
get you !” she said to herself. “ It serves me right; I oughtn’t to 
have got in a passion ; oh, I have got a lesson this time !” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Tranquilitie 

So purely sate there, that waves great nor small 
Did ever rise to any height at all. 

Chapman. 

The Sunday with Alice met all Ellen’s hopes. She wrote a very 
long letter to her mother giving the full history of the day. How 
pleasantly they had ridden to church on the pretty grey pony, — 
she half the way, and Alice the other half, talking to each other 
all the while ; for Mr. Humphreys had ridden on before. How 
lovely the road was, “winding about round the mountain, up and 
down,” and with such a wide, fair view, and “ part of the time 
close along by the edge of the water.” This had been Ellen’s first 
ride on horseback. Then the letter described the little Carra-carra 
church — Mr. Humphreys’ excellent sermon, “ every word of which 
she could understand;” Alice’s Sunday School, in which she was 
sole teacher, and how Ellen had four little ones put under her care ; 
and told how while Mr. Humphreys went on to hold a second ser- 
vice at a village some six miles off, his daughter ministered to two 
infirm old women at Carra-carra, — reading and explaining the Bible 

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to the one, and to the other, who was blind, repeating the whole 
substance of her father’s sermon. “ Miss Alice told me that no- 
body could enjoy a sermon better than that old woman, but she 
cannot go out, and every Sunday Miss Alice goes and preaches to 
her, she says.” How Ellen went home in the boat with Thomas 
and Margery, and spent the rest of the day and night also at the 
parsonage ; and how polite and kind Mr. Humphreys had been. 
“ He’s a very grave-looking man indeed,” said the letter, “ and not 
a bit like Miss Alice ; he is a great deal older than I expected.” 

This letter was much the longest Ellen had ever written in her 
life ; but she had set her heart on having her mother’s sympathy 
in her new pleasures, though not to be had but after the lapse of 
many weeks and beyond a sad interval of land and sea. Still, she 
must have it ; and her little fingers travelled busily over the paper 
hour after hour, as she found time, till the long epistle was finished. 
She was hard at work at it Tuesday afternoon when her aunt called 
her down ; and obeying the call, to her great surprise and delight 
she found Alice seated in the chimney corner and chatting away 
with her old grandmother, who looked remarkably pleased. Miss 
Fortune was bustling round as usual, looking at nobody, though 
putting in her word now and then. 

“ Come, Ellen,” said Alice, “ get your bonnet ; I am going up 
the mountain to see Mrs. Yawse, and your aunt has given leave for 
you to go with me. Wrap yourself up well, for it is not warm.” 

Without waiting for a word of answer, Ellen joyfully ran olf. 

“You have chosen rather an ugly day for your walk, Miss 
Alice.” 

“ Can’t expect pretty days in December, Miss Fortune. I am 
only too happy it doesn’t storm ; it will by to-morrow, I think. 
But I have learned not to mind weathers.” 

“ Yes, I know you have,” said Miss Fortune. “ You’ll stop up 
on the mountain till supper-time, I guess, won’t you?” 

“ Oh, yes ; I shall want something to fortify me before coming 
home after such a long tramp. You see I have brought a basket 
along. I thought it safest to take a loaf of bread with me, for no 
one can tell what maybe in Mrs. Vawse’s cupboard, and to lose our 
supper is not a thing to be thought of.” 

“ Well, have you looked out for butter, too ? for you’ll find none 
where you’re going. I don’t know how the old lady lives up there, 
but it’s without butter, I reckon.” 

“ I have taken care of that, too, thank you, Miss Fortune. You 
see I’m a far-sighted creature.” 

“ Ellen,” said her aunt, as Ellen now, cloaked and hooded, came 
in, “go into the buttery and fetch out one of them pumpkin pies 
to put in Miss Alice’s basket.” 

“Thank you, Miss Fortune,” said Alice, smiling, “I shall tell 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD . 183 

Mrs. Yawse who it comes from. Now, my dear, let’s be off; we 
have a long walk before us.” 

Ellen was quite ready to be off. But no sooner had she opened 
the outer shed door than her voice was heard in astonishment. 

££ A cat ! — What cat is this ? Miss Alice ! look here ; — here’s the 
Captain I do believe.” 

££ Here is the Captain, indeed,” said Alice. ££ Oh, pussy, pussy, 
what have you come for 1” 

Pussy walked up to his mistress, and stroking himself and his 
great tail against her dress, seemed to say that he had come for her 
sake, and that it made no difference to him where she was going. 

“ He was sitting as gravely as possible,” said Ellen, “on the 
stone just outside the door, waiting for the door to be opened. How 
could he have come here?” 

“ Why, he has followed me,” said Alice ; “he often does; but 
I came quick and I thought I had left him at home to-day. This 
is too long an expedition for him. Kitty — I wish you had stayed 
at home.” 

Kitty did not think so ; he was arching his neck and purring in 
acknowledgment of Alice’s soft touch. 

££ Can’t you send him back ?” said Ellen. 

“ No, my dear ; he is the most sensible of cats no doubt, but he 
could by no means understand such an order. No, we must let him 
trot on after us, and when he gets tired I’ll carry him ; it won’t be 
the first time by a good many.” 

They set off with a quick pace, which the weather forbade them 
to slacken. It was somewhat as Miss Fortune had said, an ugly 
afternoon. The clouds hung cold and grey, and the air had a raw 
chill feeling that betokened a coming snow. The wind blew strong 
too, and seemed to carry the chillness through all manner of wrap- 
pers. Alice and Ellen however did not much care for it ; they 
walked and ran by turns, only stopping once in a while when poor 
Captain’s uneasy cry warned them they had left him too far behind. 
Still he would not submit to be carried, but jumped down whenever 
Alice attempted it, and trotted on most perseveringly. As they 
neared the foot of the mountain they were somewhat sheltered 
from the wind, and could afford to walk more slowly. 

“ How is it between you and your aunt Fortune now?” said 
Alice. 

“ Oh, we don’t get on well at all, Miss Alice, and I don’t know 
exactly what to do. You know I said I would ask her pardon. 
Well I did, the same night after I got home, but it was very dis- 
agreeable. She didn’t seem to believe I was in earnest, and wanted 
me to tell Mr. Van Brunt that I had been wrong. I thought that 
was rather hard ; but at any rate I said I would ; and next morning 
I did tell him so ; and I believe all would have gone well if I could 


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only have Deen quiet; but aunt Fortune said something that vexed 
me, and almost before I knew it I said something that vexed her 
dreadfully. It was nothing very bad, Miss Alice, though I ought 
not to have said it; and I was sorry two minutes after, but I just 
got provoked ; and what shall I do, for it’s so hard to prevent it?” 

“ The only thing I know,” said Alice with a slight smile, “ is to 
be full of that charity which among other lovely ways of showing 
itself has this, — that it is ‘not easily provoked.’ ” 

“I am easily provoked,” said Ellen. 

“ Then you know one thing at any rate that is to be watched and 
prayed and guarded against ; it is no little matter to be acquainted 
with one’s own weak points.” 

“ I tried so hard to keep quiet that morning,” said Ellen, “ and 
if I only could have let that unlucky speech alone — but somehow 
I forgot myself, and I just told her what I thought.” 

“ Which it is very often best not to do.” 

“I do believe,” said Ellen, “aunt Fortune would like to have 
Mr. Yan Brunt not like me.” 

“ Well,” said Alice, — “ what then ?” 

“Nothing, I suppose, ma’am.” 

“ I hope you are not going to lay it up against her?” 

“ No, ma’am, — I hope not.” 

“Take care, dear Ellen, don’t take up the trade of suspecting 
evil ; you could not take up a worse ; and even when it is forced 
upon you, see as little of it as you can, and forget as soon as you 
can what you see. Your aunt, it may be, is not a very happy 
person, and no one can tell but those that are unhappy how hard it 
is not to be unamiable too. Beturn good for evil as fast as you 
can ; and you will soon either have nothing to complain of or be 
very well able to bear it.” 

They now began to go up the mountain, and the path became in 
places steep and rugged enough. “ There is an easier way on the 
other side,” said Alice, “ but this is the nearest for us.” Captain 
Parry now showed signs of being decidedly weary, and permitted 
Alice to take him up. But he presently mounted from her arms 
to her shoulder, and to Ellen’s great amusement kept his place there, 
passing from one shoulder to the other, and every now and then 
sticking his nose up into her bonnet as if to kiss her. 

“ What does he do that for ?” said Ellen. 

“ Because he loves me and is pleased,” said Alice. “ Put your 
ear close, Ellen, and hear the quiet way he is purring to himself — 
do you hear? — that’s his way ; he very seldom purrs aloud.” 

“He’s a very funny cat,” said Ellen laughing. 

“ Cat,” said Alice, — “ there isn’t such a cat as this to be seen. 
He’s a cat to be respected, my old Captain Parry. He is not to be 
laughed at Ellen, I can tell you ” 


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185 


The travellers went on with good will ; but the path was so steep 
and the way so long that when about half way up the mountain 
they were fain to follow the example of their four-footed companion 
and rest themselves. They sat down on the ground. They had 
warmed themselves with walking, but the weather was as chill and 
disagreeable and gusty as ever ; every now and then the wind came 
sweeping by, catching up the dried leaves at their feet and whirling 
and scattering them off to a distance, — winter’s warning voice. 

“ I never was in the country before when the leaves were off the 
trees,” said Ellen. “It isn’t so pretty, Miss Alice, do you think 
so ?” 

“ So pretty ? No, I suppose not, if we were to have it all the 
while ; but I like the change very much.” 

“ Do you like to see the leaves off the trees?” 

“ Yes — in the time of it. There’s beauty in the leafless trees 
that you cannot see in summer. Just look, Ellen — no, I cannot 
find you a nice specimen here, they grow too thick ; but where they 
have room the way the branches spread and ramify, or branch out 
again, is most beautiful. There’s first the trunk — then the large 
branches — then those divide into smaller ones ; and those part and 
part again into smaller and smaller twigs, till you are canopied as it 
were with a network of fine stems. And when the snow falls gently on 
them — Oh, Ellen, winter has its own beauties. I love it all ; the 
cold, and the wind, and the snow, and the bare forests, and our 
little river of ice. What pleasant sleigh-rides to church I have 
had upon that river. And then the evergreens, — look at them ; 
you don’t know in summer how much they are worth ; wait till you 
see the hemlock branches bending with a weight of snow, and then 
if you don’t say the winter is beautiful I’ll give you up as a young 
lady of bad taste.” 

“ I dare say I shall,” said Ellen ; “I am sure I shall like what 
you like. But, Miss Alice, what makes the leaves fall when the 
cold weather comes?” 

“A very pretty question, Ellen, and one that can’t be answered 
in a breath.” 

“ I asked aunt Fortune the other day,” said Ellen, laughing very 
heartily, — “and she told me to hush up and not be a fool ; and I 
told her I really wanted to know, and she said she wouldn’t make 
herself a simpleton if she was in my place ; so I thought I might 
as well be quiet.” 

“ By the time the cold weather comes, Ellen, the leaves have 
done their work and are no more needed. Do you know what work 
they have to do? — do you know what is the use of leaves?” 

“Why, for prettiness, I suppose,” said Ellen, “and to give 
shade ; — I don’t know anything else.” 

“Shade is one of their uses, no doubt, and prettiness too; he 

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who made the trees made them 1 pleasant to the eyes’ as well as 
good for food.’ So we have an infinite variety of leaves ; one 
shape would have done the work just as well for every kind of tree, 
but then we should have lost a great deal of pleasure. But, Ellen, 
the tree could not live without leaves. In the spring the thin sap 
which the roots suck up from the ground is drawn into the leaves ; 
there by the help of the sun and air it is thickened and prepared 
in a way you cannot understand, and goes back to supply the wood 
with the various matters necessary for its growth and hardness. 
After this has gone on some time the little vessels of the leaves 
become clogged and stopped up with earthy and other matter ; they 
cease to do their work any longer ; the hot sun dries them up more 
and more, and by the time the frost comes they are as good as dead. 
That finishes them, and they drop off from the branch that needs 
them no more. Do you understand all this?” 

“ Yes, ma’am, very well,” said Ellen ; “and it’s exactly what I 
wanted to know, and very curious. So the trees couldn’t live with- 
out leaves?” 

“ No more than you could without a heart and lungs.” 

“ I am very glad to know that,” said Ellen. “ Then how is it 
with the evergreens, Miss Alice? Why don’t their leaves die and 
drop off too?” 

“ They do ; look how the ground is carpeted under that pine 
tree.” 

“ But they stay green all winter, don’t they ?” 

“ Yes; their leaves are fitted to resist frost; I don’t know what 
the people in cold countries would do else. They have the fate of 
all other leaves however ; they live awhile, do their work, and then 
die ; not all at once though ; there is always a supply left on the 
tree. Are we rested enough to begin again ?’ ’ 

“I am,” said Ellen; “I don’t know about the Captain. Poor 
fellow! he’s fast asleep. I declare it’s too bad to wake you up, 
pussy. Haven’t we had a pleasant little rest, Miss Alice ? I have 
learnt something while we have been sitting here.” 

“ That is pleasant, Ellen,” said Alice, as they began their 
upward march ; — “ I would I might be all the while learning some- 
thing.” 

“ But you have been teaching, Miss Alice, and that’s as good. 
Mamma used to say it is more blessed to give than to receive.” 

“ Thank you, Ellen,” said Alice, smiling ; “ that ought to satisfy 
me certainly.” 

They bent themselves against the steep hill again and pressed 
on. As they rose higher they felt it grow more cold and bleak ; 
the woods gave them less shelter, and the wind swept round the 
mountain-head and over them with great force, making their way 
quite difficult. 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 187 

“ Courage, Ellen !” said Alice, as they struggled on ; “ we shall 
soon be there.” 

“ I wonder,” said the panting Ellen, as making an effort she 
came up alongside of Alice — “ I wonder why Mrs. Yawse will live 
in such a disagreeable place.” 

“ It is not disagreeable to her, Ellen ; though I must say I should 
not like to have too much of this wind.” 

“ But does she really like to live up here better than down below 
where it is warmer? — and all alone too?” 

“ Yes, she does. Ask her why, Ellen, and see what she will tell 
you. She likes it so much better that this little cottage was built 
on purpose for her near ten years ago, by a good old friend of hers, 
a connection of the lady whom she followed to this country.” 

“ Well,” said Ellen, “ she must have a queer taste — that is all 
I can say.” 

They were now within a few easy steps of the house, which did 
not look so uncomfortable when they came close to it. It was 
small and low, of only one story, though it is true the roof ran up 
very steep to a high and sharp gable. It was perched so snugly in 
a niche of the hill that the little yard was completely sheltered 
with a high wall of rock. The house itself stood out more boldly 
and caught pretty well near all the winds that blew ; but so, Alice 
informed Ellen, the inmate liked to have it. 

“And that roof,” said Alice, — “she begged Mr. Marshman 
when the cottage was building that the roof might be high and 
pointed ; she said her eyes were tired with the low roofs of this 
country, and if he would have it made so it would be a great relief 
to them.” 

The odd roof Ellen thought was pretty. But they now reached 
the door, protected with a deep porch. Alice entered and knocked 
at the other door. They were bade to come in. A woman was 
there stepping briskly back and forth before a large spinning-wheel. 
She half turned her head to see who the comers were, then stopped 
her wheel instantly, and came to meet them with open arms. 

“ Miss Alice ! dear Miss Alice, how glad I am to see you.” 

“ And I you, dear Mrs. Yawse,” said Alice kissing her. “ Here’s 
another friend you must welcome for my sake — little Ellen Mont- 
gomery.” 

“ I am very glad to see Miss Ellen,” said the old woman, kissing 
her also ; and Ellen did not shrink from the kiss, so pleasant were 
the lips that tendered it ; so kind and frank the smile, so winning 
the eye ; so agreeable the whole air of the person. She turned from 
Ellen again to Miss Alice. 

“It’s a long while that I have not seen you, dear, — not -since 
you went to Mrs. Marshman’ s. And what a day you have chosen 
to come at last !” 


183 THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD . 

“I can’t help that,” said Alice, pulling off her bonnet,— “ I 
couldn’t wait any longer. I wanted to see you dolefully, Mrs. 
Yawse.” 

“ Why, my dear ? what’ s the matter ? I have wanted to see you , 
but not dolefully.” 

“ That’s the very thing, Mrs. Yawse ; I wanted to see you to get 
a lesson of quiet contentment.” 



“ 1 never thought you wanted such a lesson, Miss Alice. What’s 
the matter?” 

“ I can’t get over John’s going away.” 

Her lip trembled and her eye was swimming as she said so. The 
old woman passed her hands over the gentle head and kissed her 
brow. 

“ So I thought — so I felt, when my mistress died ; and my hus- 


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189 


band ; and my sons, one after the other. But now I think I can 
say with Paul, £ I have learned in whatsoever state I am therewith 
to be content.’ I think so ; maybe that I deceive myself; but they 
are all gone, and I am certain that I am content now.” 

“ Then surely I ought to be,” said Alice. 

“It is not till one looses one’s hold of other things and looks to 
Jesus alone that one finds how much he can do. ‘ There is a friend 
that sticketh closer than a brother ;’ but I never knew all that 
meant till I had no other friends to lean upon ; — nay, I should not 
say no other friends ; — but my dearest were taken away. You have 
your dearest still, Miss Alice.” 

“ Two of them,” said Alice faintly ; — “ and hardly that now.” 

“ I have not one,” said the old woman, — “ I have not one ; but 
my home is in heaven, and my Saviour is there preparing a place for 
me. I know it — I am sure of it — and I can wait a little while, 
and rejoice all the while I am waiting. Dearest Miss Alice — 
1 none of them that trust in him shall be desolate ;’ don’t you believe 
that ?” 

“I do surely, Mrs. Vawse,” said Alice, wiping away a tear or 
two, “ but I forget it sometimes ; or the pressure of present pain is 
too much for all that faith and hope can do.” 

“ It hinders faith and hope from acting — that is the trouble. 

‘ They that seek the Lord shall not want any good thing.’ I know 
that is true, of my own experience; so will you, dear.” 

“ I know it, Mrs. Vawse — I know it all ; but it does me good to 
hear you say it. I thought I should become accustomed to John’s 
absence, but I do not at all ; the autumn winds all the while seem 
to sing to me that he is away.” 

“ My dear love,” said the old lady, “ it sorrows me much to hear 
you speak so ; I would take away this trial from you if I could ; but 
He knows best. Seek to live nearer to the Lord, dear Miss Alice, 
and he will give you much more than he has taken away.” 

Alice again brushed away some tears. 

u I felt I must come and see you to-day,” said she, “ and you 
have comforted me already. The sound of your voice always does 
me good. I catch courage and patience from you I believe.” 

“‘As iron sharpeneth iron, so a man sharpeneth the countenance 
of his friend.’ How did you leave Mr. and Mrs. Marshman ? and 
has Mr. George returned yet?” 

Drawing their chairs together, a close conversation began. Ellen 
had been painfully interested and surprised by what went before, 
but the low tone of voice now seemed to be not meant for her ear, 
and turning away her attention, she amused herself with taking a 
general survey. 

It was easy to see that Mrs. Vawse lived in this room, and prob- 
ably had no other to live in. Her bed was in one corner; cup- 


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boards filled the deep recesses on each side of the chimney, and in 
the wide fireplace the crane and the hooks and trammels hanging 
upon it showed that the bedroom and sitting-room was the kitchen 
too. Most of the floor was covered with a thick rag carpet ; where 
the boards could be seen they were beautifully clean and white, 
and every thing else in the room in this respect matched with the 
boards. The panes of glass in the little windows were clean and 
bright as panes of glass could be made ; the hearth was clean swept 
up ; the cupboard doors were unstained and unsoiled, though 
fingers had worn the paint off ; dust was nowhere. On a little 
stand by the chimney corner lay a large Bible and another book ; 
close beside stood a cushioned arm chair. Some other apartment 
there probably was where wood and stores were kept ; nothing was 
to be seen here that did not agree with a very comfortable face of 
the whole. It looked as if one might be happy there ; it looked 
as if somebody was happy there ; and a glance at the old lady of 
the house would not alter the opinion. Many a glance Ellen gave 
her as she sat talking with Alice ; and with every one she felt more 
and more drawn toward her. She was somewhat under the com- 
mon size and rather stout ; her countenance most agreeable ; there 
was sense, character, sweetness in it. Some wrinkles no doubt were 
there too ; lines deep-marked that spoke of sorrows once known. 
Those storms had all passed away ; the last shadow of a cloud had 
departed ; her evening sun was shining clear and bright toward the 
setting ; and her brow was beautifully placid, not as though it 
never had been, but as if it never could be ruffled again. Respect 
no one could help feeling for her ; and more than respect one felt 
would grow with acquaintance. Her dress was very odd, Ellen 
thought. It was not American, and what it was she did not know, 
but supposed Mrs. Vawse must have a lingering fancy for the cos- 
tume as well as for the roofs of her fatherland. More than all her 
eye turned again and again to the face, which seemed to her in its 
changing expression winning and pleasant exceedingly. The mouth 
had not forgotten to smile, nor the eye to laugh ; and though this 
was not often seen, the constant play of feature showed a deep and 
lively sympathy in all Alice was saying, and held Ellen’s charmed 
gaze; and when the old lady’s looks and words were at length 
turned to herself she blushed to think how long she had been look- 
ing steadily at a stranger. 

“ Little Miss Ellen, how do you like my house on the rock 
here ?” 

“ I don’t know, ma’am,” said Ellen; “I like it very much, only 
I don’t think I should like it so well in winter.” 

“ I am not certain that I don’t like it then best of all. Why 
would you not like it in winter ?” 

“ I shouldn’t like the cold, ma’am, and to be alone.” 


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191 


“ I like to be alone, but cold ? I am in no danger of freezing, 
Miss Ellen. I make myself very warm — keep good fires, — and 
my house is too strong for the wind to blow it away. Don’t you 
want to go out and see my cow ? I have one of the best cows that 
ever you saw ; her name is Snow ; there is not a black hair upon 
her ; she is all white. Come, Miss Alice ; Mr. Marshman sent 
her to me a month ago; she’s a great treasure and worth look- 
ing at.” 

They went across the yard to the tiny barn or outhouse, where 
they found Snow nicely cared for. She was in a warm stable, a 
nice bedding of straw upon the floor, and plenty of hay laid up for 
her. Snow deserved it, for she was a beauty, and a very well-be- 
haved cow, letting Alice and Ellen stroke her and pat her and feel 
of her thick hide, with the most perfect placidity. Mrs. Yawse 
meanwhile went to the door to look out. 

“ Nancy ought to be home to milk her,” she said ; “ I must give 
you supper and send you off. I’ve no feeling nor smell if snow 
isn’t thick in the air somewhere ; we shall see it here soon.” 

^ T 5 1 1 in i 1 lr li at 5 5 co i rl A li aa 

“ I’ll milk her!” said Ellen ; “ I’ll milk her ! Ah, do let me ; 
I know how to milk ; Mr. Van Brunt taught me, and I have done 
it several times. May I? I should like it dearly.” 

“ You shall do it surely, my child,” said Mrs. Yawse. “ Come 
with me, and I’ll give you the pail and the milking stool.” 

When Alice and Ellen came in with the milk they found the 
kettle on, the little table set, and Mrs. Yawse very busy at another 
table. 

“ What are you doing, Mrs. Yawse, may I ask ?” said Alice. 

“ I’m just stirring up some Indian meal for you ; I find I have 
not but a crust left.” 

“ Please to put that away, ma’am, for another time. Do you 
think I didn’t know better than to come up to this mountain-top 
without bringing along something to live upon while I am here ? 
Here’s a basket, ma’am, and in it are divers things; I believe 
Margery and I between us have packed up enough for two or three 
suppers; to say nothing of Miss Fortune’s pie. There it is — sure 
to be good, you know ; and here are some of my cakes that you 
like so much, Mrs. Yawse,” said Alice, as she went on pulling the 
things out of the basket, — “there is a bowl of butter — that’s not 
wanted, I see — and here is a loaf of bread ; and that’s all. Ellen, 
my dear, this basket will be lighter to carry down than it was to 
bring up.” 

“Iam glad of it, I am sure,” said Ellen ; “ my arm hasn’t done 
aching yet, though I had it so little while.” 

“Ah, I am glad to hear that kettle singing,” said their hostess. 
“I can give you good tea, Miss Alice; you’ll think so, I know, 


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for it’s the same Mr. John sent me. It is very fine tea ; and he 
sent me a noble supply, like himself,” continued Mrs. Vawse, 
taking some out of her little caddy. “ I ought not to say I have 
no friends left ; I cannot eat a meal that I am not reminded of two 
good ones. Mr. John knew one of my weak points when he sent 
me that box of Souchong.” 

The supper was ready, and the little party gathered round the 
table. The tea did credit to the judgment of the giver and the 
skill of the maker, but they were no critics that drank it. Alice 
and Ellen were much too hungry and too happy to be particular. 
Miss Fortune’s pumpkin pie was declared to be very fine, and so 
were Mrs. Vawse’ s cheese and butter. Eating and talking went 
on with great spirit, their old friend seeming scarce less pleased or 
less lively than themselves. Alice proposed the French plan, and 
Mrs. Vawse entered into it very frankly ; it was easy to see that 
the style of building and of dress to which she had been accus- 
tomed in early life were not the only things remembered kindly for 
old time’s sake. It was settled they should meet as frequently as 
might be, either here or at the parsonage, and become good French- 
women with all convenient speed. 

“ Will you wish to walk so far to see me again, little Miss 
Ellen?” 

11 Oh, yes, ma’am !” 

“ You won’t fear the deep snow, and the wind and cold, and the 
steep hill ?’ ’ 

“ Oh, no, ma’am, I won’t mind them a bit ; but, ma’am, Miss 
Alice told me to ask you why you loved better to live up here than 
down where it is warmer. I shouldn’t ask if she hadn’t said I 
might.” 

“ Ellen has a great fancy for getting at the reason of every thing, 
Mrs. Vawse,” said Alice, smiling. 

“ You wonder any body should choose it, don’t you, Miss Ellen ?” 
said the old lady. 

“ Yes, ma’am, a little.” 

“I’ll tell you the reason, my child. It is for the love of my 
old home and the memory of my young days. Till I was as old 
as you are, and a little older, I lived among the mountains and 
upon them; and after that, for many a year, they were just 
before my eyes every day, stretching away for more than one 
hundred miles, and piled up one above another, fifty times as big 
as any you ever saw; these are only molehills to them. I loved 
them— oh, how I love them still ! If I have one unsatisfied wish,” 
said the old lady, turning to Alice, “it is to see my Alps again ; 
but that will never be. Now, Miss Ellen, it is not that I fancy’ 
when I get to the top of this hill that I am among my own moun- 
tains, but I can breathe better here than down in the plain. I 


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193 


feel more free ; and in the village I would not live for gold, un- 
less that duty bade me.” 

“ But all alone so far from every body,” said Ellen. 

“ I am never lonely ; and old as I am I don’t mind a long 
walk or a rough road any more than your young feet do.” 

“ But isn’t it very cold?” said Ellen. 

“ Yes, it is very cold; — what of that? I make a good blazing 
fire, and then I like to hear the wind whistle.” 

“ Yes, but you wouldn’t like to have it whistling inside as well 
as out,” said Alice. “ I will come and do the listing and caulking 
for you in a day or two. Oh, you have it done without me ! I 
am sorry.” 

“ No need to be sorry, dear — I am glad ; you don’t look fit for 
any troublesome jobs.” 

“Iam fit enough,” said Alice. “Don’t put up the curtains; 
I’ll come and do it.” 

“You must come with a stronger face, then,” said her old 
friend; “have you wearied yourself with walking all this way?” 

“ I was a little weary,” said Alice, “ but your nice tea has made 
me up again.” 

“I wish I could keep you all night,” said Mrs. Yawse, looking 
out, “ but your father would be uneasy. I am afraid the storm 
will catch you before you get home; and you aren’t fit to breast 
it. Little Ellen too don’t look as if she was made of iron. Can’t 
you stay with me ?” 

“ 1 must not — it wouldn’t do,” said Alice, who was hastily put- 
ting on her things; “we’ll soon run down the hill. But we are 
leaving you alone ; — where’s Nancy?” 

“She’ll not come if there’s a promise of a storm,” said Mrs. 
Yawse ; “ she often stays out all night.” 

“ And leaves you alone !” 

“ I am never alone,” said the old lady quietly ; “I have nothing 
to fear ; but I am uneasy about you, dear. Mind my words ; 
don’t try to go back the way you came ; take the other road ; it’s 
easier; and stop when you get to Mrs. Yan Brunt’s; Mr. Yan 
Brunt will take you the rest of the way in his little wagon.” 

“Do you think it is needful ?” said Alice doubtfully. 

“ I am sure it is best. Hasten down. Adieu, mon enfant.” 

They kissed and embraced her and hurried out. 


i 


n 


17 


194 


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CHAPTER XIX. 

November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sough ; 

The shortening winter day is near a close. 

Burns. 

The clouds hung thick and low; the wind was less than it. had 
been. They took the path Mrs. Vawse had spoken of; it was 
broader and easier than the other, winding more gently down the 
mountain ; it was sometimes, indeed, travelled by horses, though 
far too steep for any kind of carriage. Alice and Ellen ran along 
without giving much heed to any thing but their footing, — down, 
down, — running and bounding, hand in hand, till want of breath 
obliged them to slacken their pace. 

“ Do you think it will snow ? — soon ?” asked Ellen. 

“ I think it will snow, — how soon I cannot tell. Have you had 
a pleasant afternoon?” 

“ Oh, very !” 

“ I always have when I go there. Now, Ellen, there is an ex- 
ample of contentment for you. If ever a woman loved husband 
and children and friends Mrs. Y awse loved hers ; I know this 
from those who knew her long ago ; and now look at her. Of 
them all she has none left but the orphan daughter of her 
youngest son, and you know a little what sort of a child that is.” 

“She must be a very bad girl,” said Ellen ; “you can’t think 
what stories she told me about her grandmother.” 

“Poor Nancy!” said Alice. “Mrs. .Vawse has no money nor 
property of any kind, except what is in her house ; but there is 
not a more independent woman breathing. She does all sorts of 
things to support herself. Now, for instance, Ellen, if any body 
is sick within ten miles round, the family are too happy -to get 
Mrs. Vawse for a nurse. She is an admirable one. Then she 
goes out tailoring at the farmers’ houses ; she brings home wool 
and returns it spun into yarn ; she brings home yarn and knits it 
up into stockings and socks ; all sorts of odd jobs. I have seen 
her picking hops ; she isn’t above doing any thing, and yet she 
never forgets her own dignity. I think wherever she goes and 
whatever she is about, she is at all times one of the most truly 
lady-like persons I have ever seen. And every body respects her; 
every body likes to gain her good-will ; she is known all over the 
country ; and all the country are her friends.” 

“ They pay her for doing these things, don’t they?” 

“ Certainly ; not often in money ; more commonly in various 


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195 


kinds of matters that she wants, — flour, and sugar, and Indian 
meal, and pork, and ham, and vegetables, and wool, — any thing ; 
it is but a little of each that she wants. She has friends that 
would not permit her to earn another sixpence if they could help 
it, but she likes better to live as she does. And she is always as 
you saw her to-day — cheerful and happy, as a little girl.” 

Ellen was turning over Alice’s last words and thinking that 
little girls were not always the cheerfullest and happiest creatures 
in the world, when Alice suddenly exclaimed, “ It is snowing ! 
Come, Ellen, we must make haste now !” — and set off at a quick- 
ened pace. Quick as they might, they had gone not a hundred 
yards when the whole air was filled with the falling flakes, and the 
wind which had lulled for a little now rose with greater violence 
and swept round the mountain furiously. The storm had come in 
good earnest and promised to be no trifling one. Alice and Ellen 
ran on, holding each other’s hands and strengthening themselves 
against the blast, but their journey became every moment more 
difficult. The air was dark with the thick-falling snow ; the wind 
seemed to blow in every direction by turns, but chiefly against 
them, blinding their eyes with the snow and making it necessary 
to use no small effort to keep on their way. Ellen hardly knew 
where she went, but allowed herself to be pulled along by Alice, 
or as well pulled her along ; it was hard to say which hurried 
most. In the midst of this dashing on down the hill Alice all at 
once came to a sudden stop. 

“Where’s the Captain?” said she. 

“I don’t know,” said Ellen, — “I haven’t thought of him 
since we left Mrs. Yawse’s.” 

Alice turned her back to the wind and looked up the road they 
had come, — there was nothing but wind and snow there ; how 
furiously it blew ! Alice called, “ Pussy ! — ” 

“ Shall we walk up the road a little way, or shall we stand and 
wait for him here?” said Ellen, trembling half from exertion and 
half from a vague fear of she knew not what. 

Alice called again ; — no answer, but a wild gust of wind and 
snow that drove past. 

“ I can’t go on and leave him,” said Alice ; “ he might perish 
in the storm.” And she began to walk slowly back, calling at 
intervals, “ Pussy ! — kitty ! — pussy !” — and listening for an answer 
that came not. Ellen was very unwilling to tarry, and nowise 
inclined to prolong their journey by going backwards ! She 
thought the storm grew darker and wilder every moment. 

“ Perhaps Captain staid up at Mrs. Yawse’s,” she said, “ and 
didn’t follow us down.” 

“ No,” said Alice, — “ I am sure he did. Hark ! — wasn’t that 
he?” 


196 


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“ I don’t hear any thing,” said Ellen, after a pause of anxious 
listening. 

Alice went a few steps further. 

“I hear him!” she said; — “I hear him! poor kitty!” — and 
she set off at a quick pace up the hill. Ellen followed, but pres- 
ently a burst of wind and snow brought them both to a stand. 
Alice faltered a little at this, in doubt whether to go up or down. 
But then to their great joy Captain’s far-off cry was heard, and 
both Alice and Ellen strained their voices to cheer and direct him. 
In a few minutes he came in sight, trotting hurriedly along 
through the snow, and on reaching his mistress he sat down imme- 
diately on the ground without offering any caress ; a sure sign 
that he was tired. Alice stooped down and took him up in her 
arms. 

“ Poor kitty !” she said, “ you’ve done your part for to-day, I 
think ; I’ll do the rest. Ellen, dear, it’s of no use to tire ourselves 
out at once ; we will go moderately. Keep hold of my cloak, my 
child ; it takes both of my arms to hold this big cat. Now, never 
mind the snow ; we can bear being blown about a little ; are you 
very tired?” 

“No,” said Ellen, — “not very; — I am a little tired; but I 
don’t care for that if we can only get home safe.” 

“ There’s no difficulty about that I hope. Nay, there may be 
some difficulty , but we shall get there I think in good safety after 
a while. I wish we were there now, for your sake, my child.” 

“Oh, never mind me,” said Ellen gratefully; “I am sorry for 
you, Miss Alice ; you have the hardest time of it with that heavy 
load to carry ; I wish I could help you.” 

“ Thank you, my dear, but nobody could do that ; I doubt if 
Captain would lie in any arms but mine.” 

“ Let me carry the basket then,” said Ellen, — “ do, Miss Alice.” 

“ No, my dear, it hangs very well on my arm. Take it gently ; 
Mrs. Van Brunt’s isn’t very far off; we shall feel the wind less 
when we turn.” 

But the road seemed long. The storm did not increase in 
violence, truly there was no need of that, but the looked-for turn- 
ing was not soon found, and the gathering darkness warned them 
day was drawing toward a close. As they neared the bottom of 
the hill Alice made a pause. 

“There’s a path that turns off from this and makes a shorter 
cut to Mrs. Van Brunt’s, but it must be above here; I must have 
missed it, though I have been on the watch constantly.” 

She looked up and down. It would have been a sharp eye 
indeed that had detected any slight opening in the woods on either 
side of the path, which the driving snow-storm blended into one 
continuous wall of trees. They could be seen stretching darkly 


wo 



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before and behind them ; but more than that, — where they stood 
near together and where scattered apart, — was all confusion, 
through that fast-falling shower of flakes. 

“ Shall we go back and look for the path ?” said Ellen. 

“ I am afraid we shouldn’t find it if we did,” said Alice ; “ we 
should only lose our time, and we have none to lose. I think we 
had better go straight forward.” 

“ Is it much further this way than the other path we have 
missed ?” 

“ A good deal — all of half-a-mile. I am sorry ; but courage, 
my child ! we shall know better than to go out in snowy weather 
next time, — on long expeditions at least.” 

They had to shout to make each other hear, so drove the snow 
and wind through the trees and into their very faces and ears. 
They plodded on. It was plodding ; the snow lay thick enough 
now to make their footing uneasy, and grew deeper every moment ; 
their shoes were full ; their feet and ankles were wet ; and their 
steps began to drag heavily over the ground. Ellen clung as 
close to Alice’s cloak as their hurried travelling would permit; 
sometimes one of Alice’s hands was loosened for a moment to be 
passed round Ellen’s shoulders, and a word of courage or comfort 
in the clear calm tone cheered her to renewed exertion. The 
night fell fast ; it was very darkling by the time they reached the 
bottom of the hill, and the road did not yet allow them to turn 
their faces toward Mrs. Van Brunt’s. A wearisome piece of the 
way this was, leading them from the place they wished to reach. 
They could not go fast either; they were too weary and the 
walking too heavy. Captain had the best of it ; snug and quiet 
he lay wrapped in Alice’s cloak and fast asleep, little wotting how 
tired his mistress’s arms were. 

The path at length brought them to the long-desired turning ; 
but it was by this time so dark that the fences on each side of the 
road showed but dimly. They had not spoken for a while ; as 
they turned the corner a sigh of mingled weariness and satisfaction 
escaped from Ellen’s lips. It reached Alice’s ear. 

“ What’s the matter, love?” said the sweet voice. No trace of 
weariness was allowed to come into it. 

“Iam so glad we have got here at last,” said Ellen, looking up 
with another sigh, and removing her hand for an instant from its 
grasp on the cloak to Alice’s arm. 

“ My poor child ! I wish I could carry you too. Can you hold 
on a little longer?” 

“ Oh, yes, dear Miss Alice ; I can hold on.” 

But Ellen’s voice was not so well guarded. It was like her steps, 
a little unsteady. She presently spoke again. 

*“ Miss Alice are you afraid?” 

17 * 


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“ I am afraid of your getting sick, my child, and a little afraid 
of it for myself ; — of nothing else. What is there to be afraid 
of?” 

“ It is very dark,” said Ellen ; “ and the storm is so thick, — do 
you think you can find the way?” 

“ I know it perfectly ; it is nothing but to keep straight on ; and 
the fences would prevent us from getting out of the road. It is 
hard walking I know, but we shall get there by and by ; bear up 
as well as you can, dear. I am sorry I can give you no help but 
words. Don’t you think a nice bright fire will look comfortable 
after all this?” 

“ Oh, dear, yes !” answered Ellen, rather sadly. 

“ Are you afraid, Ellen ?” 

“No, Miss Alice — not much — I don’t like its being so dark, I 
can’t see where I am going.” 

“ The darkness makes our way longer and more tedious ; it will 
do us no other harm, love. I wish I had a hand to give you, but 
this great cat must have both of mine. The darkness and the light 
are both alike to our Father ; we are in his hands ; we are safe 
enough, dear Ellen.” 

Ellen’s hand left the cloak again for an instant to press Alice’s 
arm in answer ; her voice failed at the minute. Then clinging 
anew as close to her side as she could get, they toiled patiently on. 
The wind had somewhat lessened of its violence, and besides it 
blew not now in their faces, but against their backs, helping them 
on. Still the snow continued to fall very fast, and already lay thick 
upon the ground ; every half hour increased the heaviness and 
painfulness of their march ; and darkness gathered till the very 
fences could no longer be seen. It was pitch dark ; to hold the 
middle of the road was impossible ; their only way was to keep 
along by one of the fences; and for fear of hurting themselves 
against some outstanding post or stone it was necessary to travel 
quite gently. They were indeed in no condition to travel otherwise 
if light had not been wanting. Slowly and patiently, with painful 
care groping their way, they pushed on through the snow and the 
thick night. Alice could feel the earnestness of Ellen’s grasp upon 
her clothes ; and her close pressing up to her made their progress 
still slower and more difficult than it would otherwise have been. 

“ Miss Alice,” — said Ellen. 

“ What, my child ?” 

“ I wish you would speak to me once in a while.” 

Alice freed one of her hands and took hold of Ellen’s. 

“ I. have been so busy picking my way along, I have neglected 
you, haven’t I ?” 

u Oh, no, ma’am. But I like to hear the sound of your voice 
sometimes, it makes me feel better.” 


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199 


“ This is an odd kind of travelling, isn’t it?” said Alice cheer- 
fully ; — “in the dark, and feeling our way along? This will be 
quite an adventure to talk about, won’t it?” 

“ Quite,” said Ellen. 

“It is easier going this way, don’t you find it so? The wind 
helps us forward.” 

“ It helps me too much,” said Ellen; “ I wish it wouldn’t be 
quite so very kind. Why, Miss Alice, I have enough to do to 
hold myself together sometimes. It almost makes me run, though 
I am so very tired.” 

“ Well, it is better than having it in our faces at any rate. Tired 
you are, I know, and must be. We shall want to rest all day to- 
morrow, shan’t we?” 

“ Oh, I don’t know !” said Ellen sighing ; “ I shall be glad when 
we begin. How long do you think it will be, Miss Alice, before 
we get to Mrs. Van Brunt’s?” 

“ My dear child I cannot tell you. I have not the least notion 
whereabouts we are. I can see no waymarks, and I cannot judge 
at all of the rate at which we have come.” 

“ But what if we should have passed it in this darkness?” said 
Ellen. 

“ No, I don’t think that,” said Alice, though a cold doubt struck 
her mind at Ellen’s words ; — ■“ I think we shall see the glimmer of 
Mrs. Van Brunt’s friendly candle by and by.” 

But more uneasily and more keenly now she strove to see that 
glimmer through the darkness ; strove till the darkness seemed to 
press painfully upon her eyeballs, and she almost doubted her being 
able to see any light if light there were ; it was all blank thick 
darkness still. She began to question anxiously with herself which 
side of the house was Mrs. Van Brunt’s ordinary sitting-room ; — 
whether she should see the light from it before or after passing the 
house ; and now her glance was directed often behind her, that they 
might be sure in any case of not missing their desired haven. In 
vain she looked forward or back ; it was all one ; no cheering glim- 
mer of lamp or candle greeted her straining eyes. Hurriedly now 
from time to time the comforting words were spoken to Ellen, for 
to pursue the long stretch of way that led onward from Mr. Van 
Brunt’s to Miss Fortune’s would be a very serious matter; Alice 
wanted comfort herself. 

“ Shall we get there soon, do you think, Miss Alice?” said poor 
Ellen, whose wearied feet carried her painfully over the deepening 
snow. The tone of voice went to Alice’s heart. 

“ I don’t know, my darling, — I hope so,” she answered, but it 
was spoken rather patiently than cheerfully. “ Fear nothing, dear 
Ellen ; remember who has the care of us ; darkness and light are 
both alike to him ; nothing will do us any real harm.” 


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“How tired you must be, dear Miss Alice, carrying pussy!” 
Ellen said with a sigli. 

For the first time Alice echoed the sigh ; but almost immediately 
Ellen exclaimed in a totally different tone, “ There’s a light !— but 
it isn’t a candle — it is moving about ; — what is it? what is it, Miss 
Alice?” 

They stopped and looked. A light there certainly was, dimly 
seen, moving at some little distance from the fence on the opposite 
side of the road. All of a sudden it disappeared. 

“ What is it ?” whispered Ellen fearfully. 

“ I don’t know, my love, yet ; wait — ” 

They waited several minutes. 

“What could it be?” said Ellen. “ It was certainly a light, — 
I saw it as plainly as ever I saw any thing ; — what can it have done 
with itself — there it is again ! — going the other way !” 

Alice waited no longer, but screamed out, “ Who’s there?” 

But the light paid no attention to her cry ; it travelled on. 

“ Halloo !” called Alice again as loud as she could. 

“Halloo!” answered a rough deep voice. The light suddenly 
stopped. 

“That’s he! that’s he!” exclaimed Ellen in an ecstasy and al- 
most dancing. — “I know it, — it’s Mr. Van Brunt! it’s Mr. Van 
Brunt ! — oh, Miss Alice ! ” 

Struggling between crying and laughing Ellen could not stand 
it, but gave way to a good fit of crying. Alice felt the infection, 
but controlled herself, though her eyes watered as her heart sent up 
its grateful tribute ; as well as she could she answered the halloo. 

The light was seen advancing toward them. Presently it glim- 
mered faintly behind the fence, showing a bit of the dark rails 
covered with snow, and they could dimly see the figure of a man 
getting over them. He crossed the road to where they stood. . It 
was Mr. Van Brunt. 

“ I am very glad to see you, Mr. Van Brunt,” said Alice’s sweet 
voice ; but it trembled a little. 

That gentleman, at first dumb with astonishment, lifted his 
lantern to survey them, and assure his eyes that his ears had not 
been mistaken. 

“ Miss Alice ! — My goodness alive ! — How in the name of wonder ! 
— And my poor little lamb ! — But what on ’arth, ma’am ! you must 
be half dead. Come this way, — just come back a little bit, — why, 
where were you going, ma’am?” 

“ To your house, Mr. Van Brunt ; I have been looking for it with 
no little anxiety, I assure you.” 

“Looking for it! Why how on ’artli ! you wouldn’t see the 
biggest house ever was built half a yard off such a plaguy night as 
this.” 


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201 


“ 1 thought I should see the light from the windows, Mr. Van 
Brunt.” 

“ The light from the windows ! Bless my soul ! the storm rattled 
so again’ the windows that mother made me pull the great shutters to. 
I won’t have ’em shut again of a stormy night, that’s a fact ; you’d 
ha’ gone far enough afore you’d ha’ seen the light through them 
shutters.” 

“Then we had passed the house already, hadn’t we?” 

“ Indeed had you, ma’am. I guess you saw my light, ha’ n’t 
you ?” 

“ Yes, and glad enough we were to see it, too.” 

“I suppose so. It happened so to-night — now that is a queer 
thing — I minded that I hadn’t untied my horse; he’s a trick of 
being untied at night, and won’t sleep well if he ain’t; and mother 
wanted me to let him alone ’cause of the awful storm, but I couldn’t 
go to my bed in peace till I had seen him to his’n. So that’s how 
my lantern came to be going to the barn in such an awk’ard night 
as this.” 

They had reached the little gate, and Mr. Van Brunt with some 
difficulty pulled it open. The snow lay thick upon the neat brick 
walk which Ellen had trod the first time with wet feet and dripping 
garments. A few steps further, and they came to the same door 
that had opened then so hospitably to receive her. As the faint 
light of the lantern was thrown upon the old latch and door-posts, 
Ellen felt at home, and a sense of comfort sank down into her heart 
which she had not known for some time. 


CHAPTEB XX. 


True is, that whilome that good poet said, 

The gentle minde by gentle deeds is knowne: 

For a man by nothing is so well bewrayed 
As by his manners, in which plaine is showne 
Of what degree and what race he is growne. 

Faerie Queene. 

Mr. Van Brunt flung open the door and the two wet and 
weary travellers stepped after him into the same cheerful, comfort- 
able-looking kitchen that had received Ellen once before. Just 
the same, tidy, clean swept up, a good fire, and the same old red- 
backed chairs standing round on the hearth in most cosey fashion. 
It seemed to Ellen a perfect storehouse of comfort ; the very walls 
had a kind face for her. There were no other faces however ; the 
chairs were all empty. Mr. Van Brunt put Alice in one and Ellen 


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in another, and shouted, “Mother! — here!” — muttering that she 
had taken herself off with the light somewhere. Not very far; 
for in half a minute answering the call Mrs. Van Brunt and the 
light came hurriedly in. 

“What’s the matter, ’Brahm? — who’s this? — why, ’tain’t Miss 
Alice ! My gracious me ! — and all wet ! — oh, dear, dear ! poor 
lamb ! Why, Miss Alice, dear, where have you been ? — and if that 
ain’t my little Ellen! oh, dear! what a fix you are in; — well, 
darling, I’m glad to see you again a’ most any way.” 

She crossed over to kiss Ellen as she said this ; but surprise was 
not more quickly alive than kindness and hospitality. She fell to 
work immediately to remove Alice’s wet things, and to do whatever 
their joint prudence and experience might suggest to ward off any 
ill effects from the fatigue and exposure the wanderers had suffered ; 
and while she was thus employed Mr. Van Brunt busied himself 
with Ellen, who was really in no condition to help herself. It was 
curious to see him carefully taking off Ellen’s wet hood (not the 
blue one) and knocking it gently to get rid of the snow ; evidently 
thinking that ladies’ things must have delicate handling. He tried 
the cloak next, but boggled sadly at the fastening of that, and at 
last was fain to call in help. 

“Here, Nancy! — where are you? step here and see if you can 
undo this here thing, whatever you call it ; I believe my fingers 
are too big for it.” 

It was Ellen’s former acquaintance who came forward in obedi- 
ence to this call. Ellen had not seen before that she was in the 
room. Nancy grinned a mischievous smile of recognition as she 
stooped to Ellen’s throat and undid the fastening of the cloak, and 
then shortly enough bade her “ get up, that she might take it off!” 
Ellen obeyed, but was very glad to sit down again. While Nancy 
went to the door to shake the cloak, Mr. Van Brunt was gently 
pulling off Ellen’s wet gloves, and on Nancy’s return he directed 
her to take off the shoes, which were filled with snow. Nancy sat 
down on the floor before Ellen to obey this order; and tired and 
exhausted as she was, Ellen felt the different manner in which her 
hands and feet were waited upon. 

“ How did you get into this scrape?” said Nancy; “ this was 
none of my doings any how. It’ll never be dry weather, Ellen, 
where you are. I won’t put on my Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes 
when I go a walking with you. You had ought to ha’ been a duck 
or a goose, or something like that. — What’s that for, Mr. Van 
Brunt !” 

This last query, pretty sharply spoken, was in answer to a light 
touch of that gentleman’s hand upon Miss Nancy s ear, which came 
rather as a surprise. He deigned no reply. 

“ You’re a fine gentleman !” said Nancy, tartly. 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 203 

“ Have you done what I gave you to do?” said Mr. Van Brunt 
coolly. 

“ Yes — there !” said Nancy, holding up Ellen’s bare feet on one 
hand, while the fingers of the other secretly applied in ticklish 
fashion to the soles of them caused Ellen suddenly to start and 
scream. 

“ G-et up!” said Mr. Van Brunt; Nancy didn’t think best to 
disobey; — “Mother, ha’n’t you got nothing you want Nancy to 
do?” 

“Sally,” said Mrs. Van Brunt, “you and Nancy go and fetch 
here a couple of pails of hot water, — right away.” 

“ Gro, and mind what you are about,” said Mr. Van Brunt ; “ and 
after that keep out of this room and don’t whisper again till I give 
you leave. Now Miss Ellen dear, how do you feel?” 

Ellen said in words that she felt “ nicely.” But the eyes and 
the smile said a great deal more ; Ellen’s heart was running over. 

“ Oh, she’ll feel nicely directly, I’ll be bound,” said Mrs. Van 
Brunt; “ wait till she gets her feet soaked, and then ! ” 

“ I do feel nicely now,” said Ellen. And Alice smiled in an- 
swer to their inquiries, and said if she only knew her father was 
easy there would be nothing wanting to her happiness. 

The bathing of their feet was a great refreshment, and their 
kind hostess had got ready a plentiful supply of hot herb tea, with 
which both Alice and Ellen were well dosed. While they sat sip- 
ping this, toasting their feet before the fire, Mrs. Van Brunt and 
the girls meanwhile preparing their room, Mr. Van Brunt suddenly 
entered. He was cloaked and hatted and had a riding-whip in his 
hand. 

“Is there any word you’d like to get home, Miss Alice? I’m 
going to ride a good piece that way, and I can stop as good as 
not.” 

“ To-night,. Mr. Van Brunt!” exclaimed Alice in astonishment. 

Mr. Van Brunt’s silence seemed to say that to-night was the 
time and no other. 

“ But the storm is too bad,” urged Alice. “Pray don’t go till 
to-morrow.” 

“ Pray don’t, Mr. Van Brunt !” said Ellen. 

“ Can’t help it — I’ve got business ; must go. What shall I say, 
ma’am.” 

“I should be very glad,” said Alice, “to have my father know 
where I am. Are you going very near the Nose ?” 

“ Very near.” 

“ Then I shall be greatly obliged if you will be so kind as to 
stop and relieve my father’s anxiety. But how can you go in such 
weather? and so dark as it is.” 

“Never fear,” said Mr. Van Brunt. “We’ll be back in half 


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an hour, if .’Brahm and me don’t come across a snowdrift a leetle 
too deep. Good- night, ma’am.” And out he went. 

“ ‘ Back in half an hour,’ ” said Alice musing. “ Why, he said 
he had been to untie his horse for the night ! . He must be going 
on our account, I am sure, Ellen !” 

“ On your account,” said Ellen smiling. “ Oh, I knew that all 
the time, Miss Alice. I don’t think he’ll stop to relieve aunt For- 
tune’s anxiety.” 

Alice sprang to call him back ; but Mrs. Van Brunt assured her 
it was too late, and that she need not be uneasy, for her son 
“didn’t mind the storm no more than a weatherboard.” ’Brahm 
and ’Brahm could go anywhere in any sort of a time. “ He was 
a going without speaking to you, but I told him he had better, for 
maybe you wanted to send some w ord particular. And your room’s 
ready now, dear, and you’d better go to bed and sleep as long as 
you can.” 

They went thankfully. “Isn’t this a pleasant room?” said 
Ellen, who saw every thing in rose-colour ; “and a nice bed ? But 
I feel as if I could sleep on the floor to-night. Isn’ it a’ most worth 
while to have such a time, Miss Alice, for the sake of the pleasure 
afterwards?” 

“ I don’t know, Ellen,” said Alice smiling; “ I won’t say that; 
though it is worth paying a price for to find how much kindness 
there is in some people’s hearts. As to sleeping on the floor, I 
must say I never felt less inclined to it.” 

“Well, I am tired enough too,” said Ellen as they laid them- 
selves down. “ Two nights with you in a week ! Oh, those weeks 
before I saw you, Miss Alice !” 

One earnest kiss for good-night; and Ellen’s sigh of pleasure on 
touching the pillow was scarcely breathed when sleep deep and 
sound fell upon her eyelids. 

It was very late next morning when they awoke, having slept 
rather heavily than well. They crawled out of bed feeling stiff 
and sore in every limb ; each confessing to more evil effects from 
their adventure than she had been aware of the evening before. 
All the rubbing and bathing and drinking that Mrs. Yan Brunt 
had administered had been too little to undo what wet and cold 
and fatigue had done. But Mrs. Yan Brunt had set her breakfast- 
table with every thing her house could furnish that was nice ; a 
bountifully spread board it was. Mr. Humphreys was there too; 
and no bad feelings of two of the party could prevent that from 
being a most cheerful and pleasant meal. Even Mr. Humphreys 
and Mr. Yan Brunt, two persons not usually given to many words, 
came out wonderfully on this occasion ; gratitude and pleasure in 
the one, and generous feeling on the part of the other, untied their 
tongues ; and Ellen looked from one to the other in some amaze- 


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205 


ment to see how agreeable they could be. Kindness and hospitality 
always kept Mrs. Van Brunt in full flow ; and Alice, whatever she 
felt, exerted herself and supplied what was wanting everywhere ; 
like the transparent glazing which painters use to spread over the 
dead colour of their pictures ; unknown, it was she gave life and 
harmony to the whole. And Ellen in her enjoyment of every thing 
and every body, forgot or despised aches and pains, and even whis- 
pered to Alice that coffee was making her well again. 

But happy breakfasts must come to an end, and so did this, 
prolonged though it was. Immediately after, the party whom 
circumstances had gathered for the first and probably the last time, 
scattered again ; but the meeting had left pleasant effects on all 
minds. Mrs. Van Brunt was in general delight that she had 
entertained so many people she thought a great deal of, and par- 
ticularly glad of the chance of showing her kind feelings toward 
two of the number. Mr. Humphreys remarked upon “that very 
sensible, good-hearted man, Mr. Van Brunt, toward whom he felt 
himself under great obligation.” Mr. Van Brunt said “ the min- 
ister warn’t such a grum man as people called him ;” and more- 
over said, “ it was a good thing to have £n education, and he had 
a notion to read more.” As for Alice and Ellen, they went away 
full of kind feeling for every one and much love to each other. 
This was true of them before ; but their late troubles had drawn 
them closer together and given them fresh occasion to value their 
friends. 

Mr. Humphreys had brought the little one-horse sleigh for his 
daughter, and soon after breakfast Ellen saw it drive off with her. 
Mr. Van Brunt then harnessed his own and carried Ellen home. 
Ill though she felt, the poor child made an effort and spent part of 
the morning in finishing the long letter to her mother which had 
been on the stocks since Monday. The effort became painful 
toward the last; and the aching limbs and trembling hand of 
which she complained were the first beginnings of a serious fit of 
illness. She went to bed that same afternoon, and did not leave it 
again for two weeks. Cold had taken violent hold of her system ; 
fever set in and ran high ; and half the time little Ellen’s wits 
were roving in delirium. Nothing however could be too much for 
Miss Fortune’s energies ; she was as much at home in a sick 
room as in a well one. She flew about with increased agility ; 
was up stairs and down stairs twenty times in the course of a day, 
and kept all straight everywhere. Ellen’s room was always the 
picture of neatness; the fire, the wood-fire, was taken care of; 
Miss Fortune seemed to know by instinct when it wanted a fresh 
supply, and to be on the spot by magic to give it. Ellen’s medi- 
cines were dealt out in proper time ; her gruels and drinks per- 
fectly well made and arranged with appetizing nicety on a little 

18 


206 


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table by the bedside where she could reach them herself ; and Miss 
Fortune was generally at hand when she was wanted. But in 
spite of all this there was something missing in that sick room, — 
there was a great want ; and whenever the delirium was upon her 
Ellen made no secret of it. She was never violent ; but she 
moaned, sometimes impatiently and sometimes plaintively, for her 
mother. It was a vexation to Miss Fortune to hear her. The 
name of her mother was all the time on her lips ; if by chance 
her aunt’s name came in, it was spoken in a way that generally 
sent her bouncing out of the room. 

“Mamma,” poor Ellen would say, “just lay your hand on my 
forehead, will you? it’s so hot. Oh, do, mamma! — where are 
you? Bo put your hand on my forehead, won’t you? — Oh, do 
speak to me, why don’t you, mamma? Oh, why don’t she come 
to me !” 

Once when Ellen was uneasily calling in this fashion for her 
mother’s hand, Miss Fortune softly laid her own upon the child’s 
brow ; but the quick sudden jerk of the head from under it told 
her how well Ellen knew the one from the other ; and little as she 
cared for Ellen it was wormwood to her. 

Miss Fortune was not without offers of help during this sick 
time. Mrs. Van Brunt, and afterwards Mrs. Vawse, asked leave 
to come and nurse Ellen ; but Miss Fortune declared it was more 
plague than profit to her; and she couldn’t be bothered with hav- 
ing strangers about. Mrs. Van Brunt she suffered, much against 
her will, to come for a day or two : at the end of that Miss For- 
tune found means to get rid of her civilly. Mrs. Vawse she would 
not allow to stay an hour. The old lady got leave however to go 
up to the sick room for a few minutes. Ellen, who was then in a 
high fever, informed her that her mother was down stairs, and her 
aunt Fortune would not let her come up ; she pleaded with tears 
that she might come, and entreated Mrs. Vawse to take her aunt 
away and send her mother. Mrs. Vawse tried to soothe her. 
Miss Fortune grew impatient. 

“What on earth’s the use,” said she, “of talking to a child 
that’s out of her head? She can’t hear reason; that’s the way 
she gets into whenever the fever’s on her. I have the pleasure of 
hearing that sort of thing all the time. Come away, Mrs. Vawse, 
and leave her; she can’t be better any way than alone, and I am 
in the room every other thing; — she’s just as well quiet. Nobody 
knows,” said Miss Fortune, on her way down stairs, — “ nobody 
knows the blessing of taking care of other people’s children that 
ha’ n’t tried it. Tve tried it, to my heart’s content.” 

Mrs Vawse sighed, but departed in silence. 

It was not when the fever was on her and delirium high that 
Ellen most felt the want she then so pitifully made known. ^ There 


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207 


were other times, — when her head was aching, and weary and weak 
she lay still there, — Oh, how she longed then for the dear wonted 
face ; the old quiet smile that carried so much of comfort and as- 
surance with it; the voice that was like heaven’s music; the touch 
of that loved hand to which she had clung for so many years ! 
She could scarcely bear to think of it sometimes. In the still 
wakeful hours of night, when the only sound to be heard was the 
heavy breathing of her aunt asleep on the floor by her side, and in 
the long solitary day, when the only variety to be looked for was 
Miss Fortune’s flitting in and out, and there came to be a sameness 
about that, — Ellen mourned her loss bitterly. Many and many 
were the silent tears that rolled down and wet her pillow ; many a 
long-drawn sigh came from the very bottom of Ellen’s heart ; she 
was too weak and subdued now for violent weeping. She won- 
dered sadly why Alice did not come to see her; it was another 
great grief added to the former. She never chose, however, to 
mention her name to her aunt. She kept her wonder and her 
sorrow to herself, — all the harder to bear for that. After two 
weeks Ellen began to mend, and then she became exceedingly 
weary of being alone and shut up to her room. It was a pleasure 
to have her Bible and hymn-book lying upon the bed, and a great 
comfort when she was able to look at a few words ; but that was 
not very often, and she longed to see somebody, and hear some- 
thing besides her aunt’s dry questions and answers. 

One afternoon Ellen was sitting, alone as usual, bolstered up in 
bed. Her little hymn-book was clasped in her hand ; though not 
equal to reading, she felt the touch of it a solace to her. Half 
dozing, half waking, she had been perfectly quiet for some time, 
when the sudden and not very gentle opening of the room door 
caused her to start and open her eyes. They opened wider than 
usual, for instead of her aunt Fortune it was the figure of Miss 
Nancy Yawse that presented itself. She came in briskly, and 
shutting the door behind her advanced to the bedside. 

“Well!” said she, “there you are! Why, you look smart 
enough. I’ve come to see you.” 

“ Have you ?” said Ellen, uneasily. 

“ Miss Fortune’s gone out, and she told me to come and take 
care of you; so I’m a going to spend the afternoon.” 

“ Are you?” said Ellen again. 

“ Yes — ain’t you glad ! I knew you must be lonely, so I thought 
I’d conic.” 

There was a mischievous twinkle in Nancy’s eyes. Ellen for 
once in her life wished for her aunt’s presence. 

“ What are you doing?” 

“Nothing,” said Ellen. 

“ Nothing indeed ! It’s a fine thing to lie there and do nothing. 


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You won’t get well in a hurry, I guess, will you? You look as 
well as I do this minute. Oh, I always knew you was a sham.” 

“You are very much mistaken,” said Ellen, indignantly; “I 
have been very sick, and I am not at all well yet.” 

“ Fiddle-de-dee ! it’s very nice to think so ; I guess you’re lazy. 
How soft and good those pillows do look to be sure. Come, Ellen, 
try getting up a little. I believe you hurt yourself with sleeping. 
It’ll do you good to be out of bed awhile ; come ! get up.” 

She pulled Ellen’s arm as she spoke. 

“Stop, Nancy, let me alone!” cried Ellen, struggling with all 
her force, — “I musn’t — I can’t! I musn’t get up; what do you 
mean ? I’m not able to. sit up at all ; let me go !” 

She succeeded in freeing herself from Nancy’s grasp. 

“ Well, you’re an obstinate piece,” said the other; “have your 
own way. But mind, I’m left in charge of you; is it time for 
you to take your physic ?’ ’ 

“ I am not taking any,” said Ellen. 

“ What are you taking ?” 

“ Nothing but gruel and little things.” 

“ ‘ Gruel and little things ;’ little things means something good, 
I s’ pose. Well, is it time for you to take some gruel or one of 
the little things ?” 

“ No, I don’t want any.” 

“ Oh, that’s nothing ; people never know what’s good for them ; 
I’m your nurse now, and I’m going to give it to you when I think 
you want it. Let me feel your pulse — yes, your pulse says gruel 
is wanting. I shall put some down to warm right away.” 

“ I shan’t take it,” said Ellen. 

“That’s a likely story! You’d better not say so. I rather 
s’ pose you will if I give it to you. Look here, Ellen, you’d better 
mind how you behave ; you’re going to do just what I tell you. I 
know how to manage you ; if you make any fuss I shall just 
tickle you finely,” said Nancy, as she prepared a bed of coals, and 
set the cup of gruel on it to get hot, — “ I’ll do it in no time at 
all, my young lady — so you’d better mind.” 

Poor Ellen involuntarily curled up her feet under the bed- 
clothes, so as to get them as far as possible out of harm’s way. She 
judged the best thing was to keep quiet if she could ; so she said 
nothing. Nancy was in great glee ; with something of the same 
spirit of mischief that a cat shows when she has a captured mouse 
at the end of her paws. While the gruel was heating she spun 
round the room in quest of amusement; and her sudden jerks and 
flings from one place and thing to another had so much of lawless- 
ness that Ellen was in perpetual terror as to what she might take 
it into her head to do next. 

“ Where does that door lead to ?” 


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209 


“ I believe that one leads to the garret,” said Ellen. 

“You believe so ? why don’t you say it does, at once ?” 

“ I haven’t been up to see.” 

“You haven’t ! you expect me to believe that, I s’pose ? I am 
not quite such a gull as you take me for. What’s up there ?” 

“ I don’t know, of course.” 

“ Of course ! I declare I don’t know what you are up to 
exactly; but if you won’t tell me I’ll find out for myself pretty 
quick, — that’s one thing.” 

She flung open the door and ran up ; and Ellen heard her feet 
trampling overhead from one end of the house to the other ; and 
sounds too of pushing and pulling things over the floor ; it was 
plain Nancy was rummaging. 

“ Well,” said Ellen, as she turned uneasily upon her bed, “it’s 
no affair of mine ; I can’t help it, whatever she does. But oh ! 
won’t aunt Fortune be angry !” 

Nancy presently came down with her frock gathered up into a 
bag before her. 

“What do you think I have got here?” said she. “I s’pose 
you didn’t know there was a basket of fine hickory nuts up there 
in the corner? Was it you or Miss Fortune that hid them away 
so nicely ? I s’pose she thought nobody would ever think of looking 
behind the great blue chest and under the feather bed, but it takes 
me ! — Miss Fortune was afraid of your stealing ’em, I guess, 
Ellen ?” 

“ She needn’t have been,” said Ellen, indignantly. 

“No, I s’pose you wouldn’t take ’em if you saw ’em ; you 
wouldn’t eat ’em if they were cracked for you, would you?” 

She flung some on Ellen’s bed as she spoke. Nancy had seated 
herself on the floor, and using for a hammer a piece of old iron 
she had brought down with her from the garret, she was cracking 
the nuts on the clean white hearth. 

“Indeed I wouldn’t!” said Ellen, throwing them back; “and 
you oughtn’t to crack them there, Nancy, — you’ll make a dreadful 
muss.” 

“What do you think I care?” said the other, scornfully. She 
leisurely cracked and eat as many as she pleased of the nuts, be- 
stowing the rest in the bosom of her frock. Ellen watched fear- 
fully for her next move. If she should open the little door and 
get among her books and boxes. 

Nancy’s first care however was the cup of gruel. It was found 
too hot for any mortal lips to bear, so it was set on one side to cool. 
Then taking up her rambling examination of the room, she went 
from window to window. 

“What fine big windows ! one might get in here easy enough. 
I declare, Ellen, some night I’ll set the ladder up against here, and 

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the first thing you’ll see will be me coming in. You’ll have me to 
sleep with you before you think.” 

“I’ll fasten my windows,” said Ellen. 

“No, you won’t. You’ll do it a night or two, maybe, but then 
you’ll forget it. I shall find them open when I come. Oh, I’ll 
come !” 

“ But I could call aunt Fortune,” said Ellen. 

“No, you couldn’t, ’cause if you spoke a word I’d tickle you to 
death; that’s what I’d do. I know how to fix you off. And if 
you did call her I’d just whap out of the window and run off with 
my ladder, and then you’d get a fine combing for disturbing the 
house. What’s in this trunk?” 

“ Only my clothes and things,” said Ellen. 

“ Oh, goody ! that’s fine ; now I’ll have a look at ’em. That’s just 
what I wanted, only I didn’t know it. Where’s the key? Oh, 
here it is sticking in, — that’s good 1” 

“Oh, please, don’t!” said Ellen, raising herself on her elbow, 
“ they’re all in nice order and you’ll get them all in confusion. Oh, 
do let them alone !” 

“You’d best be quiet or I’ll come and see you,” said Nancy; 
“I’m just going to look at every thing in it, and if I find any thing 
out of sorts, you’ll get it. — What’s this? ruffles, I declare! ain’t 
you fine ! I’ll see how they look on me. What a plague ! you 
haven’t a glass in the room. Never mind, — I am used to dressing 
without a glass.” 

“ Oh, I wish you wouldn’t,” said Ellen, who was worried to the 
last degree at seeing her nicely done-up ruffles round Nancy’s neck ; 
— “they’re so nice, and you’ll muss them all up.” 

“Don’t cry about it,” said Nancy coolly, “I ain’t agoing to eat 
’em. My goodness ! what a fine hood ! ain’t that pretty.” 

The nice blue hood was turning about in Nancy’s fingers, and 
well looked at inside and out. Ellen was in distress for fear it 
would go on Nancy’s head, as well as the ruffles round her neck ; 
but it didn’t; she flung it at length on one side, and went on pull- 
ing out one thing after another, strewing them very carelessly about 
the floor. 

“ What’s here? a pair of dirty stockings, as I am alive. Ain’t 
you ashamed to put dirty stockings in your trunk ?’ ’ 

“ They are no such thing,” said Ellen, who in her vexation was 
in danger of forgetting her fear, — “ I’ve worn them but once.” 

“They’ve no business in here anyhow,” said Nancy, rolling 
them up in a hard ball and giving them a sudden fling at Ellen. 
They just missed her face and struck the wall beyond. Ellen seized 
them to throw back, but her weakness warned her she was not able, 
and a moment reminded her of the folly of doing any thing to 
rouse Nancy, who for the present was pretty quiet. Ellen lay 


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211 


upon her pillow and looked on, ready to cry with vexation. All 
her nicely stowed piles of white clothes were ruthlessly hurled out 
and tumbled about ; her capes tried on ; her summer dresses un- 
folded, displayed, criticised. Nancy decided one was too short; 
another very ugly ; a third horribly ill-made ; and when she had 
done with each it was cast out of her way on one side or the other 
as the case might be. 

The floor was littered with clothes in various states of disarrange- 
ment and confusion. The bottom of the trunk was reached at last, 
and then Nancy suddenly recollected her gruel, and sprang to it. 
But it had grown cold again. 

“ This won’t do,” said Nancy, as she put it on the coals again, — 
“ it must be just right ; it’ll warm soon, and then, Miss Ellen, you’re 
a going to take it, whether or no. I hope you won’t give me the 
pleasure of pouring it down.” 

Meanwhile she opened the little door of Ellen’s study closet and 
went in there, though Ellen begged her not. She pulled the door 
to, and stayed some time perfectly quiet. Not able to see or hear 
what she was doing, and fretted beyond measure that her work-box 
and writing-desk should be at Nancy’s mercy, or even feel the touch 
of her fingers, Ellen at last could stand it no longer but threw her- 
self out of the bed, weak as she was, and went to see what was 
going on. Nancy was seated quietly on the floor, examining with 
much seeming interest the contents of the work-box ; trying on the 
thimble, cutting bits of thread with the scissors, and marking the 
ends of the spools ; with whatever like pieces of mischief her 
restless spirit could devise ; but when Ellen opened the door she 
put the box from her and started up. 

“My goodness me !” said she, “ this’ll never do. What are you 
out here for? you’ll catch your death with those dear little bare 
feet, and we shall have the mischief to pay.” 

As she said this she caught up Ellen in her arms as if she had 
been a baby and carried her back to the bed, where she laid her 
with two or three little shakes, and then proceeded to spread up 
the clothes and tuck her in all round. She then ran for the gruel. 
Ellen was in great question whether to give way to tears or vexa- 
tion ; but with some difficulty determined upon vexation as the 
best plan. Nancy prepared the gruel to her liking, and brought 
it to the bedside ; but to get it swallowed was another matter. 
Nancy was resolved Ellen should take it. Ellen had less strength 
but quite as much obstinacy as her enemy, and she was equally 
resolved not to drink a drop. Between laughing on Nancy’s part, 
and very serious anger on Ellen’s, a struggle ensued. Nancy 
tried to force it down, but Ellen’s shut teeth were as firm as a 
vice, and the end was that two-thirds were bestowed on the sheet. 
Ellen burst into tears. Nancy laughed. 


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“ Well, I do think,” said she, “ you are one of the hardest cus- 
tomers ever I came across. I shouldn’t want to have the man- 
aging of you when you get a little bigger. Oh, the way Miss For- 
tune will look when she comes in here will be a caution ! Oh, 
what fun !” 

Nancy shouted and clapped her hands. “ Come, stop crying!” 
said she, “ what a baby you are ! what are you crying for? come, 
stop ! — I’ll make you laugh if you don’t.” 

Two or three little applications of Nancy’s fingers made her 
words good, but laughing was mixed with crying, and Ellen 
writhed in hysterics. Just then came a little knock at the door. 
Ellen did not hear it, but it quieted Nancy. She stood still a. mo- 
ment ; and then as the knock was repeated she called out boldly 
“ Come in !” Ellen raised her head “ to see who there might be 
and great was the surprise of both and the joy of one as the tall 
form and broad shoulders of Mr. Van Brunt presented them- 
selves. 

“ Oh, Mr. Yan Brunt,” sobbed Ellen, “I am so glad to see 
you ! won’t you please send Nancy away?” 

“ What are you doing here ?” said the astonished Dutchman. 

“Look and see, Mr. Van Brunt,” said Nancy with a smile of 
mischief’s own curling ; “ you won’t be long finding out I guess.” 

“ Take yourself off, and don’t let me hear of your being caught 
here again.” 

“ I’ll go when I’m ready, thank you,” said Nancy ; “ and as to 
the rest I haven’t been caught the first time yet; I don’t know 
what you mean.” 

She sprang as she finished her sentence, for Mr. Van Brunt 
made a sudden movement to catch her then and there. He was 
foiled ; and then began a running chase round the room, in the 
course of which Nancy dodged, pushed, and sprang, with the power 
of squeezing by impassables and overleaping impossibilities, that 
to say the least of it was remarkable. The room was too small 
for her and she was caught at last. 

“I vow!” said Mr. Yan Brunt as he pinioned her hands, “I 
should like to see you play blind-man’s-buff for once, if I warn’t 
the blind man.” 

“ How’d you see me if you was?” said Nancy, scornfully. 

“Now, Miss Ellen,” said Mr. Yan Brunt, as he brought her to 
Ellen’s bedside, “here she is safe; what shall I do with her?” 

“ If you will only send her away, and not let her come back, 
Mr. Yan Brunt !” said Ellen, “ I’ll be so much obliged to you !” 

“Let me go!” said Nancy. “I declare you’re a real mean 
Dutchman, Mr. Yan Brunt.” 

He took both her hands in one, and laid the other lightly over 
her ears. 


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213 


“ I’ll let you go,” said he. “Now, don’t you be caught here 
again if you know what is good for yourself.” 

He saw Miss Nancy out of the door, and then came back to 
Ellen, who was crying heartily again from nervous vexation. 

“She’s gone,” said he. “What has that wicked thing been 
doing, Miss Ellen? what’s the matter with you?” 

“Oh, Mr. Van Brunt,” said Ellen, “you can’t think how she 
has worried me ; she has been here this great while ; just look at 
all my things on the floor, and that isn’t the half.” 

Mr. Van Brunt gave a long whistle as his eye surveyed the tokens 
of Miss Nancy’s mischief-making, over and through which both 
she and himself had been chasing at full speed, making the state 
of matters rather worse than it was before. 

“ I do say,” said he, slowly, “ that is too bad. I’d fix them up 
again for you, Miss Ellen, if I knew how ; but my hands are a’most 
as clumsy as my feet, and I see the marks of them there ; it’s too 
bad I declare ; I didn’t know what I was going on.” 

“Never mind, Mr. Yan Brunt,” said Ellen, — “I don’t mind 
what you have done a bit. I’m so glad to see you !’ ’ 

She put out her little hand to him as she spoke. He took it in 
his own silently, but though he said and showed nothing of it, 
Ellen’s look and tone of affection thrilled his heart with pleasure. 

“ How do you do?” said he kindly. 

“I’m a great deal better,” said Ellen. “Sit* down, won’t you, 
Mr. Van Brunt? I want to see you a little.” 

Horses wouldn’t have drawn him away after that. He sat 
down. 

“ Ain’t you going to be up again some of these days?” said he. 

“ Oh, yes, I hope so,” said Ellen sighing ; “ I am very tired of 
lying here.” 

He looked round the room ; got up and mended the fire ; then 
came and sat down again. 

“ I was up yesterday for a minute,” said Ellen, “ but the chair 
tired me so I was glad to get back to bed again.” 

It was no wonder; harder and straighter-backed chairs never 
were invented. Probably Mr. Van Brunt thought so. 

“ Wouldn’t you like to have a rocking-cheer?” said he suddenly, 
as if a bright thought had struck him. 

“ Oh, yes, how much I should!” said Ellen, with another long- 
drawn breath, “ but there isn’t such a thing in the house that ever 
I saw.” 

“ Ay, but there is in other houses though,” said Mr. Van Brunt, 
with as near an approach to a smile as his lips commonly made ; — 
we’ll see !” 

Ellen smiled more broadly. “ But don’t you give yourself any 
trouble for me,” said she. 


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“Trouble indeed !” said Mr. Van Brunt; “I don’t know any 
thing about that. How came that wicked thing up here to plague 
you ?” 

“ She said aunt Fortune left her to take care of me.” 

“That’s one of her lies. Your aunt’s gone out, I know; but 
she’s a trifle wiser than to do such a thing as that. She has plagued 
you badly, ha’ n’t she ?” 

He might have thought so. The colour which excitement brought 
into Ellen’s face had faded away, and she had settled herself back 
against her pillow with an expression of weakness and weariness 
that the strong man saw and felt. 

“ What is there I can do for you?” said he, with a gentleness 
that seemed almost strange from such lips. 

“If you would,” said Ellen faintly, — “if you could be so kind 
as to read me a hymn ? — I should be so glad. I’ve had nobody to 
read to me.” 

Her hand put the little book toward him as she said so. 

Mr. Van Brunt would vastly rather any one had asked him to 
plough an acre. He was to the full as much confounded as poor 
Ellen had once been at a request of his. He hesitated, and looked 
toward Ellen wishing for an excuse. But the pale little face that 
lay there against the pillow, — the drooping eyelids, — the meek 
helpless look of the little child, put all excuses out of his head ; 
and though he would have chosen to do almost any thing else, he 
took the book and asked her “ Where ?” She said anywhere ; and 
he took the first he saw. 

“ Poor, weak, and worthless though I am, 

I have a rich almighty friend ; 

Jesus the Saviour is his name, 

He freely loves, and without end.” 


“ Oh,” said Ellen with a sigh of pleasure, and folding her hands 
on her breast, — “ how lovely that is !” 

He stopped and looked at her a moment, and then went on with 
increased gravity. 


“ He ransom’d me from hell with blood, 

And by his pow’r my foes controll’d ; 

He found me wand’ring far from God, 

And brought me to his chosen fold.” 

“ Fold?” said Ellen, opening her eyes ; “ what is that?” 

“It’s where sheep are penned, ain’t it?” said Mr. Van Brunt, 
after a pause. 

“Oh, yes!” said Ellen, “that’s it; I remember; that’s like 
what he said, ‘ I am the good shepherd,’ and ‘ the Lord is my 
shepherd ;’ I know now. Go on, please.” 


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215 


He finished the hymn without more interruption. Looking 
again toward Ellen, he was surprised to see several large tears 
finding their way down her cheeks from under the wet eyelash. 
But she quickly wiped them away. 

“ What do you read them things for,” said he, “if they make 
you feel bad?” J 

“Feel bad!” said Ellen. “Oh, they don’t; they make me 
happy ; I love them dearly. I never read that one before. You 
can’t think how much I am obliged to you for reading it to me. 
Will you let me see where it is?” 

He gave it her. 



“Yes, there’s his mark!” said Ellen, with sparkling eyes. 
“ Now, Mr. Yan Brunt, would you be so very good as to read it 
once more?” 

He obeyed. It was easier this time. She listened as before 
with closed eyes, but the colour came and went once or twice. 

“Thank you very much,” she said, when he had done. “Are 
you going?” 

“ I must ; I have some things to look after.” 

She held his hand still. 

“Mr. Yan Brunt, — don’t you love hymns?” 

“ I don’t know much about ’em, Miss Ellen.” 

“Mr. Yan Brunt, are you one of that fold?” 

“What fold?” 




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“The fold of Christ’s people.” 

“I’m afeard not, Miss Ellen,” said he soberly, after a minute’s 
pause. 

“Because,” said Ellen, bursting into tears, “ I wish you were, 
very much.” 

She carried the great brown hand to her lips before she let it 
go. He went without saying a word. But when he got out he 
stopped and looked at a little tear she had left on the back of it. 
And he looked till one of his own fell there to keep it company. 


CHAPTER XXL 

Oh, that had, how sad a passage ’tis ! 

Shakspeare. 

The next day, about the middle of the afternoon, a light step 
crossed the shed, and the great door opening gently, in walked 
Miss Alice Humphreys. The room was all “ redd up,” and Miss 
Fortune and her mother sat there at work ; one picking over white 
beans at the table, the other in her usual seat by the fire, and at 
her usual employment, which was knitting. Alice came forward, 
and asked the old lady how she did. 

“Pretty well — Oh, pretty well!” she answered, with the look 
of bland good-humour her face almost always wore, — “and glad 
to see you, dear. Take a chair.” 

Alice did so, quite aware that the other person in the room was 
not glad to see her. 

“ And how goes the world with you, Miss Fortune ?” 

“Humph! it’s a queer kind of world, I think,” answered that 
lady dryly, sweeping some of the picked beans into her pan ; — “ I 
get a’ most sick of it sometimes.” 

“Why, what’s the matter?” said Alice, pleasantly; “may I 
ask? Has any thing happened to trouble you?” 

“Oh, no!” said the other somewhat impatiently; “nothing 
that’s any matter to any one but myself ; it’s no use speaking 
about it.” 

“ Ah ! Fortune never would take the world easy,” said the old 
woman, shaking her head from side to side; “never would; — 
I never could get her.” 

“ Now do hush, mother, will you !” said the daughter, turning 
round upon her with startling sharpness of look and tone ; — 
“‘take the world easy !’ you always did. Iam glad I ain’t like 
you.” 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 217 

“ I don’t think it’s a bad way after all,” said Alice; “ what’s 
the use of taking it hard, Miss Fortune?” 

“The way one goes on!” said that lady, picking away at her 
beans very fast and not answering Alice’s question, — “I’m tired 
of it ; — toil, toil, and drive, drive, — from morning to night ; and 
what’s the end of it all?” 

“Not much,” said Alice gravely, “if our toiling looks no fur- 
ther than this world. When we go we shall carry nothing away 
with us. I should think it would be very wearisome to toil only 
for what we cannot keep nor stay long to enjoy.” 

“It’s a pity you warn’t a minister, Miss Alice,” said Miss 
Fortune dryly. 

“ Oh, no, Miss Fortune,” said Alice smiling, “ the family would 
be overstocked. My father is one and my brother will be another ; 
a third would be too much. You must be so good as to let me 
preach without taking orders.” 

“ Well, I wish every minister was as good a one as you’d make,” 
said Miss Fortune, her hard face giving way a little ; — “ at any 
rate nobody’ d mind any thing you’d say Miss Alice.” 

“That would be unlucky, in one sense,” said Alice; “but I 
believe I know what you mean. But, Miss Fortune, no one would 
dream the world went very hard with you. I don’t know any body 
I think lives in more independent comfort and plenty, and has 
things more to her mind. I never come to the house that I am 
not struck with the fine look of the farm and all that belongs to 
it.” 

“Yes,” said the old lady, nodding her head two or three times, 
“ Mr. Van Brunt is a good farmer — very good — there’s no doubt 
about that.” 

“ I wonder what he'd do,” said Miss Fortune, quickly and 
sharply as before, “ if there warn’t a head to manage for him ! — 
Oh, the farm’s well enough, Miss Alice, — tain’t that; every one 
knows where his own shoe pinches.” 

“ I wish you’d let me into the secret then, Miss Fortune ; I’m a 
cobbler by profession.” 

Miss Fortune’s ill-humour was giving way, but something dis- 
agreeable seemed again to cross her mind. Her brow darkened. 

“ I say it’s a poor kind of world and I’m sick of it ! One may 
slave and slave one’s life out for other people, and what thanks do 
you get? — I’m sick of it.” 

“There’s a little body up-stairs, or I’m much mistaken, who 
will give you very sincere thanks for every kindness shown her.” 

Miss Fortune tossed her head, and brushing the refuse beans 
into her lap, she pushed back her chair with a jerk to go to the 
fire with them. 

“ Much you know about her, Miss Alice ! Thanks, indeed ! I 
k 19 


218 


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haven’t seen the sign of such a thing since she’s been here, for all 
I have worked and worked and had plague enough with her I am 
sure. Deliver me from other people’s children, say I !” 

“ After all, Miss Fortune,” said Alice soberly, “ it is not what 
we do for people that makes them love us, — or at least every thing 
depends on the way things are done. A look of love, a word of 
kindness, goes further toward winning the heart than years of ser- 
vice or benefactions mountain-high without them.” 

“ Does she say I am unkind to her ?” asked Miss Fortune 
fiercely. 

u Pardon me,” said Alice, “ words on her part are unnecessary : 
it is easy to see from your own that there is no love lost between 
you, and I am very sorry it is so.” 

“Love, indeed!” said Miss Fortune with great indignation; 
“ there never was any to lose I can assure you. She plagues the 
very life out of me. Why, she hadn’t been here three days before 
she went off with that girl Nancy Yawse that I had told her never 
to go near, and was gone all night; that’s the time she got in the 
brook. And if you’d seen her face when I was scolding her about 
it ! — it was like seven thunder clouds. Much you know about it ! 
I dare say'she’s very sweet to you ; that’s the way she is to every 
body beside me — they all think she’s too good to live ; and it just 
makes me mad !” 

“ She told me herself,” said Alice, “ of her behaving ill another 
time, about her mother’s letter.” 

“ Yes — that was another time. I wish you’d seen her !” 

“ I believe she saw and felt her fault in that case. Didn’t she 
ask your pardon? she said she would.” 

“ Yes,” said Miss Fortune dryly, u after a fashion.” 

“ Has she had her letter yet ?” 

“No.” 

“ How is she to-day ?” 

“ Oh, she’s well enough — she’s sitting up. You can go up and 
see her.” 

“ I will directly,” said Alice. “But now, Miss Fortune, I am 
going to ask a favour of you, — will you do me a great pleasure ?” 

“Certainly, Miss Alice, — if I can?” 

“ If you think Ellen has been sufficiently punished for her ill • 
behaviour — if you do not think it right to withhold her letter still, 
— will you let me have the pleasure of giving it to her ? I should 
take it as a great favour to myself.” 

Miss Fortune made no kind of reply to this, but stalked out of 
the room, and in a few minutes stalked in again with the letter, 
which she gave to Alice, only saying shortly, “ It came to me in a 
letter from her father.” 

“ You are willing she should have it?” said Alice. 


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219 


“ Oh, yes ! — do what you like with it.” 

Alice now went softly up stairs. She found Ellen’s door a little 
ajar, and looking in could see Ellen seated in a rocking-chair be- 
tween the door and the fire, in her double-gown, and with her hymn- 
book in her hand. It happened that Ellen had spent a good part 
of that afternoon in crying for her lost letter ; and the face that 
she turned to the door on hearing some slight noise outside was 
very white and thin indeed. And though it was placid too, her 
eye searched the crack of the door with a keen wistfulness that 
went to Alice’s heart. But as the door was gently pushed open, 
and the eye caught the figure that stood behind it, the sudden and 
entire change of expression took away all her powers of speech. 
Ellen’s face became radiant ; she rose from her chair, and as Alice 
came silently in and kneeling down to be near her took her in 
her arms, Ellen put both hers round Alice’s neck and laid her face 
there ; — one was too happy and the other too touched to say a 
word. 

“ My poor child !” was Alice’s first expression. 

“No I ain’t,” said Ellen, tightening the squeeze of her arms 
round Alice’s neck ; “ I am not poor at all now.” 

Alice presently rose, sat down in the rocking chair and took 
Ellen in her lap ; and Ellen rested her head on her bosom as she 
had been wont to do of old time on her mother’s. 

“ I am too happy,” she murmured. But she was weeping, and 
the current of tears seemed to gather force as it flowed. What was 
little Ellen thinking of just then ? Oh, those times gone by ! — 
when she had sat just so; her head pillowed on another as gentle 
a breast; kind arms wrapped round her, just as now; the same 
little old double-gown ; the same weak helpless feeling ; the same 
committing herself to the strength and care of another ; — how much 
the same, and oh ! how much not the same ! — and Ellen knew both. 
Blessing as she did the breast on which she leaned and the arms 
whose pressure she felt, they yet reminded her sadly of those most 
loved and so very far away ; and it was an odd mixture of relief 
and regret, joy and sorrow, gratified and ungratified affection, that 
opened the sluices of her eyes. Tears poured. 

“ What is the matter, my love?” said Alice softly. 

“ I don’t know,” whispered Ellen. 

“ Are you so glad to see me ? or so sorry ? or what is it?” 

“ Oh, glad and sorry both, I think,” said Ellen with a long 
breath, and sitting up. 

“ Have you wanted me so much, my poor child?” 

“I cannot tell you how much,” said Ellen, her words cut 
short. 

“ And didn’t you know that I have been sick too? What did 
you think had become of me ? Why, Mrs. Yawse was with me a 


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whole week, and this is the very first day I have been able to go 
out. It is so fine to-day I was permitted to ride Sharp down.” 

“ Was that it ?” said Ellen. “ I did wonder, Miss Alice, I did 
wonder very much why you did not come to see me. but I never 
liked to ask aunt Fortune, because ” 

“ Because what ?” 

“ I don’t know as I ought to say what I was going to ; — I had a 
feeling she would be glad about what I was sorry about.’ ’ 

“ Don’t know that you ought to say,” said Alice. “ Remember, 
you are to study English with me.” 

Ellen smiled a glad smile. 

“ And you have had a weary two weeks of it, haven’t you, 
dear ?’ ’ 

“Oh,” said Ellen, with another long-drawn sigh, “how weary! 
Part of that time, to be sure, I was out of my head ; but I have 
got so tired lying here all alone ; aunt Fortune coming in and out 
was just as good as nobody.” 

“ Poor child !” said Alice, “ you have had a worse time than I.” 

“ I used to lie and watch that crack in the door at the foot of 
my bed,” said Ellen, “ and I got so tired of it I hated to see it, 
but when I opened my eyes I couldn’t help looking at it, and 
watching all the little ins and outs in the crack till I was as sick 
of it as could be. And that button too that fastens the door, 
and the little round mark the button, has made, and thinking how 
far the button went round. And then if I looked toward the 
windows I would go right to counting the panes, first up and down 
and then across ; and I didn’t want to count them, but I couldn’t 
help it ; and watching to see through which pane the sky looked 
brightest. Oh, I got so sick of it all ! There was only the fire 
that I didn’t get tired of looking at ; I always liked to lie and look 
at that, except when it hurt my eyes. And oh, how I wanted to 
see you, Miss Alice I You can’t think how sad I felt that you 
didn’t come to see me. I couldn’t think what could be the 
matter.” 

“I should have been with you, dear, and not have left you, if I 
had not been tied at home myself.” 

“So I thought; and that made it seem so very strange. But 
Oh ! don’t you think,” said Ellen, her face suddenly brightening, 
— “ don’t you think Mr. Van Brunt came up to see me last night? 
Wasn’t it good of him ? He even sat down and read to me ; only 
think of that. And isn’t he kind? he asked if I would like a 
rocking-chair ; and of course I said yes, for these other chairs are 
dreadful, they break my back ; and there wasn’t such a thing as a 
rocking-chair in aunt Fortune’s house, she hates ’em, she says; 
and this morning, the first thing I knew, in walked Mr. Yan Brunt 
with this nice rocking-chair. Just get up and see how nice it is; 


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221 


— you see the back is cushioned, and the elbows, as well as the 
seat; — it’s queer- looking, ain’t it? but it’s very comfortable. 
Wasn’t it good of him?” 

“ It was very kind, I think. But do you know, Ellen, I am 
going to have a quarrel with you?” 

“What about?” said Ellen. “I don’t believe it’s anything 
very bad, for you look pretty good-humoured, considering.” 

“ Nothing very bad,” said Alice, “but still enough to quarrel 
about. You have twice said 1 ain't' since I have been here.” 

“Oh,” said Ellen, laughing, “is that all?” 

“Yes,” said Alice, “ and my English ears don’t like it at all.” 

“Then they shan’t hear it,” said Ellen, kissing her. “I don’t 
know what makes me say it ; I never used to. But I’ve got more 
to tell you; I’ve had more visitors. Who do you think came to 
see me? — you’d never guess — Nancy Yawse! — Mr. Van Brunt 
came in the very nick of time, when I was almost worried to death 
with her. Only think of her coming up here ! unknown to every 
body. And she stayed an age, and how she did go on. She 
cracked nuts on the hearth ; — she got every stitch of my clothes 
out of my trunk and scattered them over the floor ; — she tried to 
make me drink gruel till between us we spilled a great parcel on 
the bed; and she had begun to tickle me when Mr. Van Brunt 
came. Oh, wasn’t I glad to see him ! And when aunt Fortune 
came up and saw it all she was as angry as she could be ; and she 
scolded and scolded, till at last I told her it was none of my doing, 
— I couldn’t help it at all, — and she needn’t talk so to me about 
it ; and then she said it was my fault the whole of it ! that if I 
hadn’t scraped acquaintance with Nancy when she had forbidden 
me all this would never have happened.” 

“ There is some truth in that, isn’t there, Ellen?” 

“ Perhaps so ; but I think it might all have happened whether 
or no ; and at any rate it is a little hard to talk so to me about it 
now when it’s all over and can’t be helped. Oh, I have been so 
tired to-day, Miss Alice ! — aunt Fortune has been in such a bad 
humour.” 

“ What put her in a bad humour?” 

“ Why, all this about Nancy in the first place ; and then 1 
know she didn’t like Mr. Van Brunt’s bringing the rocking-chair 
for me ; she couldn’t say much, but I could see by her face. And 
then Mrs. Van Brunt’s coming — I don’t think she liked that. Oh, 
Mrs. Van Brunt came to see me this morning, and brought me a 
custard. How many people are kind to me! — everywhere I go.” 

“I hope, dear Ellen, you don’t forget whose kindness sends 
them all.” 

“ I don’t, Miss Alice ; I always think of that now ; and it seems 
you can’t think how pleasant to me sometimes.” 

19 * 


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“ Then I hope you can bear unkindness from one poor woman, — 
who after all isn’t as happy as you are, — without feeling any ill-will 
toward her in return.” 

“ I don’t think I feel ill-will toward her,” said Ellen ; “ [ always 
try as hard as I can not to ; but I can’t like her, Miss Alice ; and 
I do get out of patience. It’s very easy to put me out of patience, 
I think ; it takes almost nothing sometimes.” 

“ But remember, ‘ charity suffereth long and is kind.’ ” 

“ And I try all the while, dear Miss Alice, to keep down my bad 
feelings,” said Ellen, her eyes watering as she spoke ; “ I try and 
pray to get rid of them, and I hope I shall by and by ; I believe I 
am very bad.” 

Alice drew her closer. 

“I have felt very sad part of to-day,” said Ellen presently; 
“ aunt Fortune, and my being so lonely, and my poor letter, 
altogether ; — but part of the time I felt a great deal better. I was 
learning that lovely hymn, — do you know it, Miss Alice ? — 1 Poor, 
weak, and worthless, though I am?’ ” 

Alice went on : — 

“I have a rich almighty friend, 

Jesus the Saviour is his name, 

He freely loves, and without end.” 

“ Oh, dear Ellen, whoever can say that, has no right to be 
unhappy. No matter what happens, we have enough to be glad 
of.” 

“ And then I was thinking of those words in the Psalms, — 
‘ Blessed is the man’ — stop, I’ll find it; I don’t know exactly how 
it goes ; — ‘ Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven ; whose sin 
is covered.’ ” 

“ Oh, yes indeed !” said Alice. “ It is a shame that any trifles 
should worry much those whose sins are forgiven them and who are 
the children of the great King. Poor Miss Fortune never knew 
the sweetness of those words. We ought to be sorry for her, and 
pray for her, Ellen ; and never, never, even in thought, return evil 
for evil. It is not like Christ to do so.” 

“ I will not, I will not, if I can help it,” said Ellen. 

“ You can help it ; but there is only one way. Now, Ellen dear, 
I have three pieces of news for you that I think you will like. 
One concerns you, another myself, and the third concerns both you 
and myself. Which will you have first?” 

“ Three pieces of good news !” said Ellen with opening eyes ; — 
“ I think I’ll have my part first.” 

Directing Ellen’s eyes to her pocket, Alice slowly made the corner 
of the letter show itself. Ellen’s colour came and went quick as 
it was drawn forth ; but when it was fairly out and she knew it 
again, she flung herself upon it with a desperate eagerness Alice 


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223 


had not looked for ; she was startled at the half frantic way in 
which the child clasped and kissed it, weeping bitterly at the same 
time. Her transport was almost hysterical. She had opened the 
letter, but she was not able to read a word; and quitting Alice’s 
arms she threw herself upon the bed, sobbing in a mixture of joy 
and sorrow that seemed to take away her reason. Alice looked on 
surprised a moment, but only a moment, and turned away. 

When Ellen was able to begin her letter the reading of it served 
to throw her back into fresh fits of tears. Many a word of Mrs. 
Montgomery’s went so to her little daughter’s heart that its very 
inmost cords of love and tenderness were wrung. It is true the 
letter was short and very simple; but it came from her mother’s 
heart; it was written by her mother’s hand; and the very old 
remembered handwriting had mighty power to move her. She was 
so wrapped up in her own feelings that through it all she never 
noticed that Alice was not near her, that Alice did not speak to 
comfort her. When the letter had been read time after time, and 
wept over again and again, and Ellen at last was folding it up for 
the present, she bethought herself of her friend and turned to look 
after her. Alice was sitting by the window, her face hid in her 
hands, and as Ellen drew near she was surprised to see that her 
tears were flowing and her breast heaving. Ellen came quite 
close, and softly laid her hand on Alice’s shoulder. But it drew no 
attention. 

“ Miss Alice,” said Ellen almost fearfully, — “ dear Miss Alice,” 
— and her own eyes filled fast again, “ what is the matter? — won’t 
you tell me? — Oh, don’t do so ! please don’t!” 

“I will not,” said Alice lifting her head; “I am sorry I have 
troubled you dear ; I am sorry I could not help it.” 

She kissed Ellen, who stood anxious and sorrowful by her side, 
and brushed away her tears. But Ellen saw she had been shed- 
ding a great many. 

“ What is the matter, dear Miss Alice ? what has happened to 
trouble you? — won’t you tell me ?” — Ellen was almost crying her- 
se!f. 

Alice came back to the rocking-chair, and took Ellen in her arms 
again ; but she did not answer her. Leaning her face against 
Ellen’s forehead she remained, silent. Ellen ventured to ask no 
more questions ; but lifting her hand once or twice caressingly to 
Alice’s face she was distressed to find her cheek wet still. Alice 
spoke at last. 

“ It isn’t fair not to tell you what is the matter, dear Ellen, since 
I have let you see me sorrowing. It is nothing new, nor anything 
I would have otherwise if I could. It is only that I have had a 
mother once, and have lost her; and you brought back the old 
time so strongly that I could not command myself.” 


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Ellen felt a hot tear drop upon her forehead, and again ventured 
to speak her sympathy only by silently stroking Alice’s cheek. 

“It is all past now,” said Alice; “it is all well. I would not 
have her back again. I shall go to her I hope by and by.’ % 

“Oh, no! you must stay with me,” said Ellen, clasping both 
arms round her. 

There was a long silence, during which they remained locked in 
each other’s arms. 

“ Ellen dear,” said Alice at length, “ we are both motherless, for 
the present at least, — both of us almost alone ; I think God has 
brought us together to be a comfort to each other. We will be 
sisters while he permits us to be so. Don’t call me Miss Alice any 
more. You shall be my little sister and I will be your elder sister, 
and my home shall be your home as well.” 

Ellen’s arms were drawn very close round her companion at this, 
but she said nothing, and her face was laid in Alice’s bosom. 
There was another very long pause. Then Alice spoke in a livelier 
tone. 

“ Come, Ellen ! look up ! you and I have forgotten ourselves ; it 
isn’t good for sick people to get down in the dumps. Look up and 
let me see these pale cheeks. Don’t you want something to eat?” 

“ I don’t know,” said Ellen faintly. 

“ What would you say to a cup of chicken broth ?” 

“ Oh, I should like it very much !” said Ellen with new energy. 

“ Margery made me some particularly nice, as she always does ; 
and I took it into my head a little might not come amiss to you ; 
so I resolved to stand the chance of Sharp’s jolting it all over me, 
and I rode down with a little pail of it on my arm. Let me rake 
open these coals and you shall have some directly.” 

“ And did you come without being spattered ?” said Ellen. 

“ Not a drop. Is this what you use to warm things in ? Never 
mind, it has had gruel in it ; I’ll set the tin pail on the fire ; it 
won’t hurt it.” 

“ I am so much obliged to you,” said Ellen, “ for do you know 
I have got quite tired of gruel, and panada I can’t bear.” 

“ Then I am very glad I brought it.” 

While it was warming Alice washed Ellen’s gruel cup and spoon ; 
and presently she had the satisfaction of seeing Ellen eating the 
broth with that keen enjoyment none know but those that have 
been sick and are getting well. She smiled to see her gaining 
strength almost in the very act of swallowing. 

“ Ellen,” said she presently, “ I have been considering your 
dressing-table. It looks rather doleful. I’ll make you .a present 
of some dimity, and when you come to see me you shall make a 
cover for it that will reach down to the floor and hide those long 
legs.” 


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225 


“ That wouldn’t do at all,” said Ellen ; “ aunt Fortune would go 
off into all sorts of fits.” 

“ What about ?” 

“Why the washing, Miss Alice — to have such a great thing to 
wash every now and then. You can’t think what a fuss she makes 
if I have more than just so many white clothes in the wash every 
week.” 

“ That’s too bad,” said Alice. “ Suppose you bring it up to me 
— it wouldn’t be often — and I’ll have it washed for you, — if you 
care enough about it to take the trouble.” 

“Oh, indeed I do !” said Ellen ; “ I should like it very much, 
and I’ll get Mr. Van Brunt to — no I can’t, aunt Fortune won’t 
let me ; I was going to say I would get him to saw off the legs 
and make it lower for me, and then my dressing-box would stand 
so nicely on the top. Maybe I can yet. Oh, I never showed you 
my boxes and things.” 

Ellen brought them all out and displayed their beauties. In 
the course of going over the writing-desk she came to the secret 
drawer and a little money in it. 

“Oh, that puts me in mind!” she said. “Miss Alice, this 
money is to be spent for some poor child ; — now I’ve been think- 
ing Nancy has behaved so to me I should like to give her some- 
thing to show her that I don’t feel unkindly about it — what do 
you think will be a good thing?” 

“ I don’t know, Ellen — I’ll take the matter into consideration.” 

“Do you think a Bible would do?” 

“Perhaps that would do as well as any thing; — I’ll think 
about it.” 

“I should like to do it very much,” said Ellen, “for she has 
vexed me wonderfully.” 

“ Well, Ellen, would you like to hear my other pieces of news? 
or have you no curiosity ?” 

“Oh, yes, indeed,” said Ellen; “I had forgotten it entirely; 
what is it, Miss Alice ?” 

“ You know I told you one concerns only myself, but it is great 
news to me. I learnt this morning that my brother will come to 
spend the holidays with me. It is many months since I have seen 
him.” 

“ Does he live far away?” said Ellen. 

“ Yes, — he has gone far away to pursue his studies, and cannot 
come home often. The other piece of news is that I intend, if 
you have no objection, to ask Miss Fortune’s leave to have you 
spend the holidays with me too.” 

“ Oh, delightful !” said Ellen, starting up and clapping her hands, 
and then throwing them round her adopted sister’s neck; — “dear 
Alice, how good you are I” 

P 


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“ Then I suppose I may reckon upon your consent,” said Alice, 
“and I’ll speak to Miss Fortune without delay.” 

“ Oh, thank you, dear Miss Alice ; — how glad I am ! I shall be 
happy all the time from now till then thinking of it. You aren’t 
going ?” 

“ I must.” 

“Ah, don’t go yet! Sit down again; you know you’re my * 
sister, — don’t you want to read mamma’s letter?” 

“ If you please, Ellen, I should like it very much.’' 

She sat down, and Ellen gave her the letter, and stood by while 
she read it, watching her with glistening eyes ; and though as she 
saw Alice’s fill her own overflowed again, she hung over her still 
to the last ; going over every line this time with a new pleasure. 

“ New York , Saturday , Nov. 22, 18 — . 

“ My Dear Ellen, 

“ I meant to have written to you before, but have been scarcely 
able to do so. I did make one or two efforts which came to 
nothing ; I was obliged to give it up before finishing any thing 
that could be called a letter. To-day I feel much stronger than I 
have at any time since your departure. 

“ I have missed you, my dear child, very much. There is not 
an hour in the day, nor a half hour, that the want of you does 
not come home to my heart ; and I think I have missed you in 
my very dreams. This separation is a very hard thing to bear. 
But the hand that has arranged it does nothing amiss ; we must 
trust Him, my daughter, that all will be well. I feel it is well ; 
though sometimes the thought of your dear little face is almost 
too much for me. I will thank Hod I have had such a blessing so 
long, and I now commit my treasure to Him. It is an unspeak- 
able comfort to me to do this, for nothing committed to his care is 
ever forgotten or neglected. Oh, my daughter, never forget to 
pray ; never slight it. It is almost my only refuge, now I have 
lost you, and it bears me up. How often — how often, — through 
years gone by, — when heart-sick and faint, — I have fallen on my 
knees, and presently there have been as it were drops of cool water 
sprinkled upon my spirit’s fever. Learn to love prayer, dear 
Ellen, and then you will have a cure for all the sorrows of life. 
And keep this letter, that if ever you are like to forget it, your 
mother’s testimony may come to mind again. 

“ My tea, that used to be so pleasant, has become a sad meal to 
me. I drink it mechanically and set down my cup, remembering 
only that the dear little hand which used to minister to my wants 
is near me no more. My child — my child ! — words are poor to ex- 
press the heart’s yearnings, — my spirit is near you all the time. 

“ Your old gentleman has paid me several visits. The day after 


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227 


you went came some beautiful pigeons. I sent word back tbat you 
were no longer here to enjoy his gifts, and the next day he came 
to see me. He has shown himself very kind. And all this, dear 
Ellen, had for its immediate cause your proper and ladylike be- 
haviour in the store. That thought has been sweeter to me than 
all the old gentleman’s birds and fruit. I am sorry to inform you 
that though I have seen him so many times I am still perfectly 
ignorant of his name. 

“We set sail Monday in the England. Your father has secured 
a nice state-room for me, and I have a store of comforts laid up 
for the voyage. So next week you may imagine me out on the 
broad ocean, with nothing but sky and clouds and water to be seen 
around me, and probably much too sick to look at those. Never 
mind that ; the sickness is good for me. 

“ I will write you as soon as I can again, and send by the first 
conveyance. 

“ And now my dear baby — my precious child — farewell. May 
the blessing of God be with you ! 

“ Your affectionate mother, 

“ E. Montgomery.” 

“ You ought to be a good child, Ellen,” said Alice, as she dashed 
away some tears. “ Thank you for letting me see this ; it has been 
a great pleasure to me.” 

“And now,” said Ellen, “you feel as if you knew mamma a 
little.” 

“ Enough to honour and respect her very much. Now good-by, 
my love ; I must be at home before it is late. I will see you again 
before Christmas comes.” 


CHAPTER, XXII. 

When icicles T nang by the wall, 

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, 

And Tom bears logs into the hall, 

And milk comes frozen home in pail. 

Shakspeare. 

To Ellen’s sorrow she was pronounced next morning well enough 
to come down stairs ; her aunt averring that “ it was no use to keep 
a fire burning up there for nothing.” She must get up and dress 
in the cold again ; and winter had fairly set in now; the 19th of 
December rose clear and keen. Ellen looked sighingly at the heap 
of ashes and the dead brands in the fireplace where the bright little 


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fire had blazed so cheerfully the evening before. But regrets did 
not help the matter ; and shivering she began to dress as fast as 
she could. Since her illness a basin and pitcher had been brought 
into her room, so the washing at the spout was ended for the pres- 
ent ; and though the basin had no place but a chair, and the pitcher 
must stand on the floor, Ellen thought herself too happy. But 
how cold it was ! The wind swept past her windows, giving wintry 
shakes to the panes of glass, and through many an opening in the 
wooden frame-work of the house it came in and saluted Ellen’s bare 
arms and neck. She hurried to finish her dressing, and wrapping 
her double-gown over all, went down to the kitchen. It was an- 
other climate there. A great fire was burning that it quite cheered 
Ellen’s heart to look at; and the air seemed to be full of coffee and 
buckwheat cakes; Ellen almost thought she should get enough 
breakfast by the sense of smell. 

“ Ah ! here you are,” said Miss Fortune. “ What have you got 
that thing on for ?” 

“ It was so cold up stairs,” said Ellen, drawing up her shoulders. 
The warmth had not got inside of her wrapper yet. 

“Well, ’tain’t cold here; you’d better pull it off right away. 
I’ve no notion of people’s making themselves tender. You’ll be 
warm enough directly. Breakfast ’ll warm you.” 

Ellen felt almost inclined to quarrel with the breakfast that was 
offered in exchange for her comfortable wrapper ; she pulled it off 
however and sat down without saying any thing. Mr. Yan Brunt 
put some cakes on her plate. 

“If breakfast’s a going to warm you,” said he, “make haste 
and get something down ; or drink a cup of coffee ; you’re as blue 
as skim milk.” 

“ Am I?” said Ellen laughing; “ I feel blue ; but I can’t eat 
such a pile of cakes as that, Mr. Yan Brunt.” 

As a general thing the meals at Miss Fortune’s were silent so- 
lemnities ; an occasional consultation, or a few questions and remarks 
about farm affairs, being all that ever passed. The breakfast this 
morning was a singular exception to the common rule. 

“I am in a regular quandary,” said the mistress of the house, 
when the meal was about half over. 

Mr. Yan Brunt looked up for an instant, and asked “what 
about ?” 

“ Why, how I am ever going to do to get those apples and 
sausage-meat done. If I go to doing ’em myself I shall about get 
through by spring.” 

“ Why don’t you make a bee?” said Mr. Yan Brunt. 

“ Ain’t enough of either on ’em to make it worth while. I ain’t 
a going to have all the bother of a bee without some thing to show 
for’t.” 


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“Turn ’em both into one,” suggested her counsellor, going on 
with his breakfast. 

“Both?” 

“ Yes — let ’em pare apples in one room and cut pork in t’other.” 

“But I wonder who ever heard of such a thing before,” said 
Miss Fortune, pausing with her cup of coffee half way to her lips. 
Presently, however, it was carried to her mouth, drunk off, and set 
down with an air of determination. 

“I don’t care,” said she, “if it never was heard of. I’ll do it 
for once anyhow. I’m not one of them to care what folks say. 
I’ll have it so ! But I won’t have ’em to tea, mind you ; I’d rather 
throw apples and all into the fire at once. I’ll have but one plague 
of setting tables, and that I won’t have ’em to tea. I’ll make it 
up to ’em in the supper though.” 

“ I’ll take care to publish that,” said Mr. Yan Brunt. 

“ Don’t you go and do such a thing,” said Miss Fortune earnestly. 
“ I shall have the whole country on my hands. I won’t have but 
just as many on ’em as’ 11 do what I want done ; that’ll be as much 
as I can stand under. Don’t you whisper a word of it to a living 
creature. I’ll go round and ask ’em myself to come Monday even- 
ing.” 

“Monday evening — then I suppose you’d like to have up the 
sleigh this afternoon. Who’s a-coming?” 

“ I don’t know ; I ha’ n’t asked ’em yet.” 

“They’ll every soul come that’s asked, that you may depend; 
there ain’t one on ’em that would miss of it for a dollar.” 

Miss Fortune bridled a little at the implied tribute to her house- 
keeping. 

“ If I was some folks I wouldn’t let people know I was in such 
a mighty hurry to get a good supper,” she observed rather scorn- 
fully. 

“ Humph !” said Mr. Yan Brunt ; “ I think a good supper ain’t 
a bad thing; and I’ve no objection to folk’s knowing it.” 

“ Pshaw ! I didn’t mean you said Miss Fortune ; “ I was think- 
ing of those Lawsons, and other folks.” 

“ If you’re a going to ask them to your bee you ain’t of my 
mind.” 

“Well, I am though,” replied Miss Fortune; “there’s a good 
many hands of ’em ; they can turn off a good lot of work in an 
evening ; and they always take care to get me to their bees. I 
may as well get something out of them in return if I can.” 

“ They’ll reckon on getting as much as they can out o’ you , if 
they come, there’s no sort of doubt in my mind. It’s my belief 
Mimy Lawson will kill herself some of these days upon green corn. 
She was at home to tea one day last summer, and I declare I 
thought ” 


20 


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What Mr. Van Brunt thought he left his hearers to guess. 

“ Well, let them kill themselves if they like,” said Miss For- 
tune ; “I am sure I am willing ; there’ll be enough ; I ain’t a going 
to mince matters when once I begin. Now, let me see. There’s 
five of the Lawsons to begin with — I suppose they’ll all come; — 
Bill Huff, and Jany, that’s seven ; — ” 

“ That Bill Huff is as good-natured a fellow as ever broke 
ground,” remarked Mr. Van Brunt. “Ain’t better people in the 
town than them Huffs are.” 

“They’re well enough,” said Miss Fortune. “Seven — and the 
Hitchcocks, there’s three of them, that’ll make ten, — ” 

“ Dennison’s ain’t far from there,” said Mr. Van Brunt. “ Dan 
Dennison’s a fine hand at a’ most any thing, in doors or out.” 

“ That’s more than you can say for his sister. Cilly Dennison 
gives herself so many airs it’s altogether too much for plain 
country folks. I should like to know what she thinks herself. 
It’s a’ most too much for my stomach to see her flourishing that 
watch and chain.” 

“What’s the use of troubling yourself about other people’s 
notions?” said Mr. Van Brunt. “If folks want to take the road 
let’em have it. That’s my way. I am satisfied, provided they 
don’t run me over.” 

“’Tain’t my way, then, I’d have you to know,” said Miss For- 
tune; “I despise it! And ’tain’t your way neither, Van Brunt; 
what did you give Tom Larkens a cowhiding for ?” 

“’Cause he deserved it, if ever a man did,” said Mr. Van 
Brunt, quite rousing up ; — “ he was treating that little brother of 
his’n in a way a boy shouldn’t be treated, and I am glad I did it. 
I gave him notice to quit before I laid a finger on him. He warn’t 
doing nothing to me.” 

“And how much good do you suppose it did?” said Miss 
Fortune rather scornfully. 

“It did just the good I wanted to do. He has seen fit to let 
little Billy alone ever since.” 

“ Well, I guess I’ll let the Dennisons come,” said Miss Fortune ; 
“ that makes twelve, and you and your mother are fourteen. I 
suppose that man Marshchalk will come dangling along after the 
Hitchcocks.” 

“ To be sure he will ; and his aunt, Miss Janet, will come with 
him most likely.” 

“Well — there’s no help for it,” said Miss Fortune. “That 
makes sixteen.” 

“Will you ask Miss Alice?” 

“Not I ! she’s another of your proud set. I don’t want to see 
any body that thinks she’s going to do me a great favour by 
coming.” 


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231 


Ellen’s lips opened, but wisdom came in time to stop the words 
that were on her tongue. It did not, however, prevent the quick 
little turn of her head which showed what she thought, and the 
pale cheeks were for a moment bright enough. 

“ She is, and I don’t care who hears it,” repeated Miss Fortune. 
“ I suppose she’d look as sober as a judge too if she saw cider on 
the table ; they say she won’t touch a drop ever, and thinks it’s 
wicked ; and if that ain’t setting oneself up for better than other 
folks I don’t know what is.” 

“ I saw her paring apples at the Huffs though,” said Mr. Van 
Brunt, “ and as pleasant as any body ; but she didn’t stay to 
supper.” 

“I’d ask Mrs. Yawse if I could get word to her,” said Miss 
Fortune, — “ but I can never travel up that mountain. If I get a 
sight of Nancy I’ll tell her.” 

“There she is, then,” said Mr. Van Brunt, looking toward the 
little window that opened into the shed. And there indeed was 
the face of Miss Nancy pressed flat against the glass, peering into 
the room. Miss Fortune beckoned to her. 

“ That is the most impudent, shameless, outrageous piece of 

What were you doing at the, window?” said she as Nancy came 
in. 

“Looking at you, Miss Fortune,” said Nancy coolly. “What 
have you been talking about this great while ? If there had only 
been a pane of glass broken I needn’t have asked.” 

“ Hold your tongue,” said Miss Fortune, “ and listen to me.” 

“I’ll listen, ma’am,” said Nancy, “but it’s of no use to hold 
my tongue. I do try, sometimes, but I never could keep it long.” 

“ Have you done ?” 

“I don’t know, ma’am,” said Nancy, shaking her head; “it’s 
just as it happens.” 

“ You tell your granny I am going to have a bee here next 
Monday evening, and ask her if she’ll come to it.” 

Nancy nodded. “ If it’s good weather,” she added conditionally. 

“Stop, Nancy!” said Miss Fortune, “here!” — for Nancy was 
shutting the door behind her. — “ As sure as you come here Monday 
night without your grandma you’ll go out of the house quicker 
than you come in ; see if you don’t !” 

With another gracious nod and smile Nancy departed. 

“Well,” said Mr. Van Brunt, rising, “I’ll despatch this business 
down stairs, and then I’ll bring up the sleigh. The pickle’s ready 
I suppose.” 

“ No it ain’t,” said Miss Fortune, “ I couldn’t make it yesterday ; 
but it’s all in the kettle, and I told Sam to make a fire down stairs, 
so you can put it on when you go down. The kits are all ready. 


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Mr. Van Brunt went down the stairs that led to the lower kitchen ; 
and Miss Fortune, to make up for lost time, set about her morning’s 
work with even an uncommon measure of activity. Ellen, in con- 
sideration of her being still weak, was not required to do any thing. 
She sat and looked on, keeping out of the way of her bustling 
aunt as far as it was possible ; but Miss Fortune’s gyrations were 
of that character that no one could tell five minutes beforehand 
what she might consider “ in the way.” Ellen wished for her quiet 
room again. Mr. Van Brunt’s voice sounded down stairs in tones 
of business; what could he be about? it must be very uncommon 
business that kept him in the house. Ellen grew restless with the 
desire to go and see, and to change her aunt’s company for his; 
and no sooner was Miss Fortune fairly shut up in the buttery at 
some secret work than Ellen gently opened the door at the head of 
the lower stairs and looked down. Mr. Van Brunt was standing at 
the bottom and he looked up. 

“ May I come down there, Mr. Van Brunt?” said Ellen softly. 

“Come down here? to be sure you may! You may always 
come straight where I am without asking any questions.” 

Ellen went down. But before she reached the bottom stair she 
stopped with almost a start, and stood fixed with such a horrified 
face that neither Mr. Van Brunt nor Sam Larkens, who was there, 
could help laughing. 

“What’s the matter?” said the former, — “they’re all dead 
enough, Miss Ellen ; you needn’t be scared.” 

Three enormous hogs which had been killed the day before greeted 
Ellen’s eyes. They lay in different parts of the room, with each a 
cob in his mouth. A fourth lay stretched upon his back on the 
kitchen table, which was drawn out into the middle of the floor. 
Ellen stood fast on the stair. 

“ Have they been killed !” was her first astonished exclamation, 
to which Sam responded with another burst. 

“Be quiet, Sam Larkens !” said Mr. Van Brunt. “Yes, Miss 
Ellen, they’ve been killed sure enough.” 

“ Are these the same pigs I used to see you feeding with corn, 
Mr. Yan Brunt?” 

“The identical same ones,” replied that gentleman, as laying 
hold of the head of the one on the table and applying his long 
sharp knife with the other hand, he while he was speaking severed 
it neatly and quickly from the trunk. “ And very fine porkers they 
are; I ain’t ashamed of ’em.” 

“ And what’s going to be done with them now?” said Ellen. 

“ I am just going to cut them up and lay them down. Bless my 
heart! you never see nothing of the kind before, did you?” 

“ No,” said Ellen. “ What do you mean by ‘ laying them down,’ 
Mr. Yan Brunt?” 


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233 


“Why, laying ’em down in salt for pork and hams. You want 
to see the whole operation, don’t you ? Well, here’s a seat for you. 
You’d better fetch that painted coat o’ yourn and wrap round you, 
for it ain’t quite so warm here as up stairs ; but it’s getting warmer. 
Sam, just you shut that door to, and throw on another log.” 

Sam built up as large a fire as could be made under a very large 
kettle that hung in the chimney. When Ellen came down in her 
wrapper she was established close in the chimney corner ; and when 
Mr. Van Brunt, not thinking her quite safe from the keen currents 
of air that would find their way into the room, despatched Sam for 
an old buffalo robe that lay in the shed. This he himself with 
great care wrapped round her, feet and chair and all, and secured 
it in various places with old forks. He declared then she looked 
for all the world like an Indian, except her face, and in high good- 
humour both, he went to cutting up the pork, and Ellen from out 
of her buffalo robe watched him. 

It was beautifully done. Even Ellen could see that, although 
she could not have known if it had been done ill. The knife 
guided by strength and skill seemed to go with the greatest ease 
and certainty just where he wished it; the hams were beautifully 
trimmed out ; the pieces fashioned clean ; no ragged cutting ; and 
his quick-going knife disposed of carcass after carcass with admi- 
rable neatness and celerity. Sam meanwhile arranged the pieces 
in different parcels at his direction, and minded the kettle, in 
which a great boiling and scumming was going on. Ellen was too 
much amused for a while to ask any questions. When the cutting 
up was all done the hams and shoulders were put in a cask by 
themselves and Mr. Van Brunt began to pack down the other 
pieces in the kits, strewing them with an abundance of salt. 

“ What’s the use of putting all that salt with the pork, Mr. 
Van Brunt?” said Ellen. 

“It wouldn’t keep good without that; it would spoil very 
quick.” 

“ Will the salt make it keep ?’ 

“ All the year round — as sweet as a nut.” 

“ I wonder what is the reason of that,” said Ellen. “ Will salt 
make every thing keep good?” 

“ Every thing in the world — if it only has enough of it, and is 
kept dry and cool.” 

11 Are, you going to do the hams in the same way ?” 

“ No j — they’re to go in that pickle over the fire.” 

“ In this kettle ? what is in it ?” said Ellen. 

“ You must ask Miss Fortune about that ; — sugar and salt and 
saltpetre and molasses, and I don’t know what all.” 

“ And will this make the hams so different from the rest of the 
pork?” 


20 * 


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“ No ; they’ve got to be smoked after they have laid in that for 
a while.” 

“ Smoked !” said Ellen ; “how?” 

“ Why ha’n’t you been in the smoke-house ? The hams has to 
be taken out of the pickle and hung up there ; and then we make 
a little fire of oak chips and keep it burning night and day.” 

“ And how long must they stay in the smoke ?” 

“ Oh, three or four weeks or so.” 

“ And then they are done.” 

“ Then they are done.” 

“How very curious!” said Ellen. “Then it’s the smoke that 
gives them that nice taste ? I never knew smoke was good for 
any thing before.” 

“Ellen !” said the voice of Miss Fortune from the top of the 
stairs, — “come right up here this minute! you’ll catch your 
death!” 

Ellen’s countenance fell. 

“There’s no sort of fear of that, ma’am,” said Mr. Van Brunt, 
quietly, “ and Miss Ellen is fastened up so she can’t get loose; 
and I can’t let her out just now.” 

The upper door was shut again pretty sharply, but that was the 
only audible expression of opinion with which Miss Fortune 
favoured them. 

“I guess my leather curtains keep off the wind, dont’t they?” 
said Mr. Van Brunt. 

“ Yes, indeed they do,” said Ellen, “ I don’t feel a breath ; I am 
as warm as a toast, — too warm almost. How nicely you have fixed 
me up, Mr. Van Brunt.” 

“I thought that ’ere old buffalo had done its work,” he said, 
“but I’ll never say any thing is good for nothing again. Have 
you found out where the apples are yet?” 

“ No,” said Ellen. 

“Ha’n’t Miss Fortune showed you! Well, it’s time you’d 
know. Sam, take that little basket and go fill it at the bin ; I 
guess you know where they be, for I believe you put ’em there.” 

Sam went into the cellar, and presently returned with the 
basket nicely filled. He handed it to Ellen. 

“ Are all these for me?” she said in surprise. 

“ Every one of ’em,” said Mr. Van Brunt. 

“ But I don’t like to,” said Ellen; — “what will aunt Fortune 
say ?” 

“ She won’t say a word,” said Mr. Van Brunt ; “ and don’t you 
say a word neither, but whenever you want apples just go to the 
bin and take ’em. I give you leave. It’s right at the end of the 
far cellar, at the left-hand corner ; there are the bins and all sorts 
of apples in ’em. You’ve got a pretty variety there, ha’n’t you?” 


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235 


“Oh, all sorts,” said Ellen, — “and what beauties! and I love 
apples very much, — red, and yellow, and speckled, and green. — 
What a great monster !” 

“That’s a Swar; that ain’t as good as most of the others; — 
those are Seek-no-furthers.” 

“Seek-no-further!” said Ellen; — “what a funny name. It 
ought to be a mighty good apple. I shall seek further at any rate. 
What is this?” 



“ That’s as good an apple as you’ve got in the basket; that’s a 
real Orson pippin ; a very fine kind. I’ll fetch you some up from 
home some day though that are better than the best of those.” 

The pork was all packed ; the kettle was lifted off the fire; Mr. 
Van Brunt was wiping his hands from the salt. 

“ And now I suppose I must go,” said Ellen with a little sigh. 

“ Why I must go,” said he, — “ so I suppose I may as well let 
you out of your tent first.” 

“I have had such a nice time,” said Ellen ; “ I had got so tired 
of doing nothing up stairs. I am very much obliged to you, Mr. 
Van Brunt. But,” said she, stopping as she had taken up her 
basket to go, — “aren’t you going to put the hams in the pickle?” 



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“No,” said he, laughing, “it must wait to get cold first. But 
you’ll make a capital farmer’s wife, there’s no mistake.” 

Ellen blushed, and ran up stairs with her apples. To bestow 
them safely in her closet was her first care ; the rest of the morn- 
ing was spent in increasing weariness and listlessness. She had 
brought down her little hymn-book, thinking to amuse herself with 
learning a hymn, but it would not do ; eyes and head both refused 
their part of the work ; and when at last Mr. Van Brunt came in 
to a late dinner, he found Ellen seated flat on the hearth before 
the fire, her right arm curled round upon the hard wooden bottom 
of one of the chairs, and her head pillowed upon that, fast asleep. 

u Bless my soul !” said Mr. Van Brunt, “ what’s become of that 
’ere rocking-cheer?” 

“It’s up stairs, I suppose. You can go fetch it if you’ve a 
mind to,” answered Miss Fortune dryly enough. 

He did so immediately ; and Ellen barely waked up to feel her- 
self lifted from the floor, and placed in the friendly rocking-chair ; 
Mr. Van Brunt remarking at the same time that “ it might be well 
enough to let well folks lie on the floor, and sleep on cheers, but 
cushions warn’t a bit too soft for sick ones.” 

Among the cushions Ellen went to sleep again with a much bet- 
ter prospect of rest ; and either sleeping or dozing passed away the 
time for a good while. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


0 that I were an Orange tree, 

That busy plant ! 

Then should I always laden be, 

And never want 

Some fruit for him that dresseth me. 

G. Herbert. 


She was thoroughly roused at last by the slamming of the house- 
door after her aunt. She and Mr. Van Brunt had gone forth on 
their sleighing expedition, and Ellen waked to find herself quite 
alone. 

She could not long have doubted that her aunt was away, even 
if she had not caught a glimpse of her bonnet going out of the 
shed door, — the stillness was so uncommon. No such quiet could 
be with Miss Fortune anywhere about the premises. The old 
grandmother must have been abed and asleep too, for a cricket 
under the hearth and the wood fire in the chimney had it all to 
themselves, and made the only sounds that were heard ; the first 


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237 


singing out every now and then in a very contented and cheerful 
style, and the latter giving occasional little snaps and sparks that 
just served to make one take notice how very quietly and steadily 
it was burning. 

Miss Fortune had left the room put up in the last extreme of 
neatness. Not a speck of dust could be supposed to lie on the 
shining painted floor; the back of every chair was in its place 
against the wall. The very hearth-stones shone and the heads of 
the large iron nails in the floor were polished to steel. Ellen sat a 
while listening to the soothing chirrup of the cricket and the pleasant 
crackling of the flames. It was a fine cold winter’s day. The two 
little windows at the far end of the kitchen looked out upon an 
expanse of snow-; and the large lilac bush that grew close by the 
wall, moved lightly by the wind, drew its icy fingers over the panes 
of glass. Wintry it was without ; but that made the warmth and 
comfort within seem all the more. Ellen would have enjoyed it 
very much if she had had any one to talk to ; as it was she felt 
rather lonely and sad. She had begun to learn a hymn ; but it had 
set her off upon a long train of thought ; and with her head resting 
on her hand, her fingers pressed into her cheek, the other hand 
with the hymn-book lying listlessly in her lap, and eyes staring 
into the fire, she was sitting the very picture of meditation when 
the door opened and Alice Humphreys came in. Ellen started up. 

“ Oh, I’m so glad to see you ! I’m all alone.” 

“Left alone, are you?” said Alice, as Ellen’s warm lips were 
pressed again and again to her cold cheeks. 

“ Yes, aunt Fortune’s gone out. Come and sit down here in the 
rocking-chair. How cold you are. Oh, do you know she is going 
to have a great bee here Monday evening ? What is a bee T ’ 

Alice smiled. “ Why,” said she, “ when people here in the 
country have so much of any kind of work to do that their own 
hands are not enough for it, they send and call in their neighbours 
to help them, — that’s a bee. A large party in the course of a long 
evening can do a great deal.” 

“ But why do they call it a bee 

“ I don’t know, unless they mean to be like a hive of bees for 
the time. 1 As busy as a bee,’ you know.” 

“ Then they ought to call it a hive and not a bee, I should think. 
Aunt Fortune is going to ask sixteen people. I wish you were 
coming !” 

“ How do you know but I am ?” 

“ Oh, I know you aren’t. Aunt Fortune isn’t going to ask 
you.” 

“ You are sure of that, are you ?” 

“ Yes, I wish I wasn’t. Oh, how she vexed me this morning by 
something she saidl” 


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“You mustn’t get vexed so easily, my child. Don’t let every 
little untoward thing roughen your temper.” 

“ But I couldn’t help it, dear Miss Alice ; it was about you. I 
don’t know whether I ought to tell you ; but I don’t think you’ll 
mind it, and I know it isn’t true. She said she didn’t want you to 
come because you were one of the proud set.” 

“ And what did you say ?” 

“ Nothing. I had it just on the end of my tongue to say, ‘ It’s 
no such thing ;’ but I didn’t say it.” 

“I am glad you were so wise. Dear Ellen, that is nothing to 
be vexed about. If it were true, indeed, you might be sorry. I 
trust Miss Fortune is mistaken. I shall try and find some way to 
make her change her mind. I am glad you told me.” 

“ I am so glad you are come, dear Alice l” said Ellen again. “ I 
wish I could have you always !” And the long, very close pressure 
of her two arms about her friend said as much. There was a long 
pause. The cheek of Alice rested on Ellen’s head which nestled 
against her ; both were busily thinking ; but neither spoke ; and 
the cricket chirped and the flames crackled without being listened 
to. 

“ Miss Alice,” said Ellen, after a long time, — “ I wish you would 
talk over a hymn with me.” 

“ How do you mean, my dear?” said Alice rousing herself. 

“ I mean, read it over and explain it. Mamma used to do it 
sometimes. I have been thinking a great deal about her to-day ; 
and I think I’m very different from what- 1 ought to be. I wish 
you would talk to me and make me better, Miss Alice.” 

Alice pressed an earnest kiss upon the tearful little face that was 
uplifted to her, and presently said, 

“ I am afraid I shall be a poor substitute for your mother, Ellen. 
What hymn shall we take?” 

“ Any one — this one if you like. Mamma likes it very much. 
I was looking it over to-day. 

“ * A charge to keep I have — 

A God to glorify; 

A never-dying soul to save, 

And fit it for the sky.’ ” 

Alice read the first line and paused. 

“There now,” said Ellen, — “what is a charge?” 

“ Don’t you know that?” 

“ I think I do, but I wish you would tell me.” 

“ Try to tell me first.” 

“Isn’t it something that is given one to do? — I don’t know 
exactly.” 

“ It is something given one in trust, to be done or taken care of. 


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239 


I remember very well once when I was about your age my mother 
had occasion to go out for half an hour, and she left me in charge 
of my little baby sister ; she gave me a charge not to let anything 
disturb her while she was away and to keep her asleep if I could. 
And I remember how I kept my charge too. I was not to take 
her out of the cradle, but I sat beside her the whole time ; I would 
not suffer a fly to light on her little fair cheek ; I scarcely took my 
eyes from her; I made John keep pussy at a distance ; and when- 
ever one of the little round dimpled arms was thrown out upon the 
coverlet I carefully drew something over it again.” 

“ Is she dead?” said Ellen timidly, her eyes watering in sym- 
pathy with Alice’s. 

“ She is dead, my dear ; she died before we left England.” 

“ I understand what a charge is,” said Ellen after a little ; “ but 
what is this charge the hymn speaks of? What charge have I to 
keep ?” 

“ The hymn goes on to tell you. The next line gives you part 
of it. ‘ A God to glorify.’ ” 

“ To glorify?” said Ellen doubtfully. 

“ Yes — that is to honour, — to give him all the honour that be- 
longs to him.” 

“ But can /honour Him?" 

“ Most certainly • either honour or dishonour ; you cannot help 
doing one.” 

“ I !” said Ellen again. 

“ Must not your behaviour speak either well or ill for the mother 
who has brought you up ?” 

“Yes — I know that.” 

“ Very well ; 'when a child of God lives as he ought to do, peo- 
ple cannot help having high and noble thoughts of that glorious 
One whom he serves, and of that perfect law he obeys. Little as 
they may love the ways of religion, in their own secret hearts they 
cannot help confessing that there is a God and that they ought to 
serve him. But a worldling, and still more an unfaithful Christian, 
just helps people to forget there is such a Being, and makes them 
think either that religion is a sham, or that they may safely go on 
despising it. I have heard it said, Ellen, that Christians are the 
only Bible some people ever read ; and it is true ; all they know 
of religion is what they get from the lives of its professors ; and 
oh ! were the world but full of the right kind of example, the 
kingdom of darkness could not stand. ‘ Arise, shine !’ is a word 
that every Christian ought to take home.” 

u But how can I shine ?” asked Ellen. 

“ My dear Ellen ! — in the faithful, patient, self-denying perform- 
ance of every duty as it comes to hand — ‘ whatsoever thy hand 
findeth to do, do it with thy might.’ ” 


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“ It is very little that I can do,” said Ellen. 

“ Perhaps more than you think, but never mind that. All are 
not great stars in the church ; you may be only a little rushlight ; 
— see you burn well !” 

“I remember,” said Ellen, musing, — “mamma once told me 
when I was going somewhere, that people would think strangely 
of her if I didn’t behave well.” 

“ Certainly. Why, Ellen, I formed an opinion of her very soon 
after I saw you.” 

“ Did you!” said Ellen, with a wonderfully brightened face, — 
“ what was it ? was it good ? ah ! do tell me !” 

“ I am not quite sure of the wisdom of that,” said Alice, smil- 
ing ; “you might take home the praise that is justly her right and 
not yours.” 

“ Oh, no indeed,” said Ellen, “ I had rather she should have it 
than I. Please tell me what you thought of her, dear Alice, — I 
know it was good, at any rate.” 

“Well, I will tell you,” said Alice, “ at all risks. I thought 
your mother was a lady, from the honourable notions she had 
given you ; and from your ready obedience to her, which was 
evidently the obedience of love, I judged she had been a good 
mother in the true sense of the term. I thought she must be a 
refined and cultivated person from the manner of your speech and 
behaviour ; and I was sure she was a Christian, because she had 
taught you the truth, and evidently had tried to lead you in it.” 

The quivering face of delight with which Ellen began to listen 
gave way, long before Alice had done, to a burst of tears. 

“ It makes me so glad to hear you say that,” she said. 

“ The praise of it is your mother’s, you know, Ellen.” 

“ I know it, — but you make me so glad !” And hiding her face 
in Alice’s lap, she fairly sobbed. 

“ You understand now, don’t you, how Christians may honour 
or dishonour their Heavenly Father?” 

“ Yes, I do ; but it makes me afraid to think of it.” 

“Afraid? It ought rather to make you glad. It is a great 
honour and happiness for us to be permitted to honour him. — 


“ ‘A never-dying soul to save, 

And fit it for the sky.’ 

“ Yes — that is the great duty you owe yourself. Oh, never 
forget it, dear Ellen ! And whatever would hinder you, have 
nothing to do with it. ‘ What will it profit a man though he gain 
the whole world, and lose his own soul ?’ 

“ * To serve the present age, 

My calling to fulfil — * ” 


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241 


“ What is ‘ the present age ?’ ” said Ellen. 

“ All the people who are living in the world at this time.” 

11 But, dear Alice ! — what can I do to the present age?” 

“ Nothing to the most part of them certainly ; and yet, dear 
Ellen, if your little rushlight shines well there is just so much the 
less darkness in the world, — though perhaps you light only a v^ry 
little corner. Every Christian is a blessing to the world ; another 
grain of salt to go toward sweetening and saving the mass.” 

“ That is very pleasant to think of,” said Ellen, musing. 

“ Oh, if we were but full of love to our Saviour, how pleasant 
it would be to do any thing for him ! how many ways we should 
find of honouring him by doing good.” 

“ I wish you would tell me some of the ways that I can do it,” 
said Ellen. 

“You will find them fast enough if you seek them, Ellen. No 
one is so poor or so young but he has one talent at least to use for 
God.” 

“ I wish I knew what mine is,” said Ellen. 

“ Is your daily example as perfect as it can be ?” 

Ellen was silent and shook her head. 

“ Christ pleased not himself, and went about doing good ; and 
he said, ‘ If any man serve me, let him follow me .’ Remember 
that. Perhaps your aunt is unreasonable and unkind ; — see with 
how much patience and perfect sweetness of temper you can bear 
and forbear ; see if you cannot win her over by untiring gentle- 
ness, obedience, and meekness. Is there no improvement to be 
made here ?” 

“ Oh, me, yes !” answered Ellen with a sigh. 

“ Then your old grandmother. Can you do nothing to cheer her 
life in her old age and helplessness? can’t you find some way of 
giving her pleasure ? some way of amusing a long tedious hour 
now and then ?” 

Ellen looked very grave ; in her inmost heart she knew this was 
a duty she shrank from. 

“ He 1 went about doing good.’ Keep that in mind. A kind 
word spoken, — a little thing done to smooth the way of one, or 
lighten the load of another, — teaching those who need teaching, — 
entreating those who are walking in the wrong way, — oh ! my 
child, there is work enough ! 

“ i To serve the present age, 

My calling to fulfil ; 

Oh, may it all my powers engage 
To do my Maker’s will. 

“‘Arm me with jealous care, 

As in thy sight to live ; 

And oh ! thy servant, Lord, prepare 
A strict account to give.’ ” 

21 


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“ An account of what?” said Ellen.” 

“ You know what an account is. If I give Thomas a dollar to 
spend for me at Carra-carra, I expect he will give me an exact ac- 
count when he comes back, what he has done with every shilling 
of it. So must we give an account of what we have done with 
every thing our Lord has committed to our care, — our hands, our 
tongues, our time, our minds, our influence ; how much we have 
honoured him, how much good we have done to others, how fast 
and how far we have grown holy and fit for heaven.” 

“ It almost frightens me to hear you talk, Miss Alice.” 

“Not frighten , dear Ellen, — that is not the word; sober we 
ought to be ; — mindful to do nothing we shall not wish to remember 
in the great day of account. Do you recollect how that day is 
described? Where is your Bible?” 

She opened to the 20th chapter of the Revelation. 

“And I saw a great white throne, and Him that sat on it, from 
whose face the earth and the heaven flew away ; and there was 
found no place for them. 

“ And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God ; and 
the books were opened ; and another book was opened, which 
is the book of life : and the dead were judged out of those things 
which were written in the books, according to their works. And 
the sea gave up the dead which were in it ; and death and hell de- 
livered up the dead which were in them ; and they were judged 
every man according to their works. And death and hell were cast 
into the lake of fire. This is the second death. 

“And whosoever was not found written in the book of life was 
cast into the lake of fire.’ ’ 

Ellen shivered. “ That is dreadful !” she said. 

“ It will be a dreadful day to all but those whose names are 
written in the Lamb’s book of life; — not dreadful to them, dear 
Ellen.” 

“ But how shall I be sure, dear Alice, that my name is written 
there? and I can’t be happy if I am not sure.” 

“ My dear child,” said Alice tenderly, as Ellen’s anxious face 
and glistening eyes were raised to hers, “ if you love Jesus Christ 
you may know you are his child, and none shall pluck you out of 
his hand.” 

“But how can I tell whether I do love him really? sometimes 
I think I do, and then again sometimes I am afraid I don’t at all.” 

Alice answered in the words of Christ ; — “ He that hath my 
commandments and keepeth them, he it is that lovetli me.” 

“Oh, I don’t keep his commandments!” said Ellen, the tears 
running down her cheeks. 

“ Perfectly , none of us do. But, dear Ellen, that is not the 
question. Is it your heart’s desire and effort to keep them ? Are 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 243 

you grieved when you fail ? — There is the point. You cannot love 
Christ without loving to please him.” 

Ellen rose and putting both arms round Alice’s neck laid her 
head there, as her manner sometimes was, tears flowing fast. 

“ I sometimes think I do love him a little,” she said, “ but I do 
so many wrong things. But he will teach me to love him if I ask 
him, won’t he, dear Alice?” 

“ Indeed he will, dear Ellen,” said Alice, folding her arms round 
her little adopted sister, — “ indeed he will. He has promised that. 
Remember what he told somebody who was almost in despair, — 
‘ Fear not; only believe.’ ” 

Alice’s neck was wet with Ellen’s tears; and after they had 
ceased to flow her arms kept their hold and her head its resting- 
place on Alice’s shoulder for some time. It was necessary at last 
for Alice to leave her. 

Ellen waited till the sound of her horse’s footsteps died away on 
the road ; and then sinking on her knees beside her rocking-chair 
she poured forth her whole heart in prayers and tears. She con- 
fessed many a fault and short-coming that none knew but herself ; 
and most earnestly besought help that “ her little rushlight might 
shine bright.” Prayer was to little Ellen what it is to all that 
know it, — the satisfying of doubt, the soothing of care, the 
quieting of trouble. She had knelt down very uneasy ; but she 
knew that God has promised to be the hearer of prayer, and she 
rose up very comforted, her mind fixing on those most sweet 
words Alice had brought to her memory, — “ Fear not — only be- 
lieve.” When Miss Fortune returned, Ellen was quietly asleep 
again in her rocking-chair, with a face very pale but calm as an 
evening sunbeam. 

“Well, I declare if that child ain’t sleeping her life away !” 
said Miss Fortune. “She’s slept this whole blessed forenoon; I 
suppose she’ll want to be alive and dancing the whole night to pay 
for it.” 

“ I can tell you what she’ll want a sight more,” said Mr. Van 
Brunt, who had followed her in ; it must have been to see about 
Ellen, for he was never known to do such a thing before or since ; 
— “I’ll tell you what she’ll want, and that’s a right hot supper. 
She eat as nigh as possible nothing at all this noon. There ain’t 
much danger of her dancing a hole in your floor this some time.” 


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CHAPTER XXIV. 

Is supper ready, the house trimmed, rushes strewed, cobwebs swept ? 

Taming of the Shrew. 

Great preparations were making all Saturday and Monday for 
the expected gathering. From morning till night Miss Fortune 
was in a perpetual bustle. The great oven was heated no less 
than three several times on Saturday alone. Ellen could hear the 
breaking of eggs in the buttery, and the sound of beating or 
whisking for a long time together; and then Miss Fortune would 
come out with floury hands, and plates of empty egg-shells made 
their appearance. But Ellen saw no more. Whenever the coals 
were swept out of the oven and Miss Fortune had made sure that 
the heat was just right for her purposes, Ellen was sent out of 
the way, and when she got back there was nothing to be seen but 
the fast-shut oven door. It was just the same when the dishes in 
all their perfection were to come out of the oven again. The 
utmost Ellen was permitted to see was the napkin covering some 
stray cake or pie that by chance had to pass through the kitchen 
where she was. 

As she could neither help nor look on, the day passed rather 
wearily. She tried studying ; a very little she found was enough 
to satisfy both mind and body in their present state. She longed 
to go out again and see how the snow looked, but a fierce wind all 
the fore part of the day made it unfit for her. Toward the mid- 
dle of the afternoon she saw with joy that it had lulled, and 
though very cold, was so bright and calm that she might venture. 
She had eagerly opened the kitchen door to go up and get ready, 
when a long weary yawn from her old grandmother made her look 
back. The old lady had laid her knitting in her lap and bent her 
face down to her hand, which she was rubbing across her brow as 
if to clear away the tired feeling that had settled there. Ellen’s 
conscience instantly brought up Alice’s words, — “ Can’t you do 
something to pass away a tedious hour now and then?” The first 
feeling was of vexed regret that they should have come into her 
head at that moment; then conscience said that was very selfish. 
There was a struggle. Ellen stood with the door in her hand, 
unable to go out or come in. But not long. As the words came 
back upon her memory, — “ A charge to keep I have,” — her mind 
was made up ; after one moment’s prayer for help and forgiveness 
she shut the door, came back to the fireplace, and spoke in a 
cheerful tone. 



“ As soon as she was set free Ellen brought her Bible.” 

Pago 245. 







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245 


“ Grandma, wouldn’t you like to have me read something to 
you ?” 

“Read!” answered the old lady, “Laws a me! /don’t read 
nothing, deary.” 

“ But wouldn’t you like to have me read to you, grandma?” 

The old lady in answer to this laid down her knitting, folded 
both arms round Ellen, and kissing her a great many times declared 
she should like any thing that came out of that sweet little mouth. 
As soon as she was set free Ellen brought her Bible, sat down close 
beside her, and read chapter after chapter ; rewarded even then by 
seeing that though her grandmother said nothing she was listening 
with fixed attention, bending down over her knitting as if in earnest 
care to catch every word. And when at last she stopped, warned 
by certain noises down stairs that her aunt would presently be 
bustling in, the old lady again hugged her close to her bosom, kiss- 
ing her forehead and cheeks and lips, and declaring that she was 
“ a great deal sweeter than any sugar-plums and Ellen was very 
much surprised to feel her face wet with a tear from her grand- 
mother’s cheek. Hastily kissing her again (for the first time in 
her life) she ran out of the room, her own tears starting and her 
heart swelling big. “ Oh ! how much pleasure,” she thought, “ I 
might have given my poor grandma, and how I have let her alone 
all this while ! How wrong I have been. But it shan’t be so in 
future l” 

It was not quite sundown, and Ellen thought she might yet have 
two or three minutes in the open air. So she wrapped up very 
warm and went out to the chip-yard. 

Ellen’s heart was very light; she had just been fulfilling a duty 
that cost her a little self-denial, and the reward had already come ; 
and now it seemed to her that she had never seen any thing so 
perfectly beautiful as the scene before her ; — the brilliant snow that 
lay in a thick carpet overall the fields and hills, and the pale streaks 
of sunlight stretching across it between the long shadows that 
reached now from the barn to the house. One moment the light 
tinted the snow-capped fences and whitened barn-roofs ; then the 
lights and the shadows vanished together, and it was all one cold 
dazzling white. Oh, how glorious ! — Ellen almost shouted to her- 
self. It was too cold to stand still ; she ran to the barnyard to see 
the cows milked. There they were, — all her old friends, — Streaky 
and Holly and Jane and Sukey and Betty Flynn, — sleek and con- 
tented ; winter and summer were all the same to them. And Mr. 
Van Brunt was very glad to see her there again, and Sam Larkens 
and Johnny Low looked as if they were too, and Ellen told them 
with great truth she was very glad indeed to be there ; and then 
she went in to supper with Mr. Van Brunt and an amazing appetite. 

That was Saturday. Sunday passed quietly, though Ellen could 

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not help suspecting it was not entirely a day of rest to her aunt ; 
there was a savoury smell of cooking in the morning which nothing 
that came on the table by any means accounted for, and Miss 
Fortune was scarcely to be seen the whole day. 

With Monday morning began a grand bustlo, and Ellen was well 
enough now to come in for her share. The kitchen, parlour, hall, 
shed, and lower kitchen, must all be thoroughly swept and dusted ; 
this was given to her, and a morning’s work pretty near she found 
it. Then she had to rub bright all the brass handles of the doors, 
and the big brass andirons in the parlour, and the brass candlesticks 
on the parlour mantelpiece. When at last she got through and 
came to the fire to warm herself, she found her grandmother 
lamenting that her snuff-box was empty, and asking her daughter 
to fill it for her. 

“Oh, I can’t be bothered to be running up stairs to fill snuff- 
boxes!” answered that lady ; “you’ll have to wait.” 

“I’ll get it, grandma,” said Ellen, “if you’ll tell me where.” 

“Sit down and be quiet!” said Miss Fortune. “You go into 
my room just when I bid you, and not till then.” 

Ellen sat down. But no sooner was Miss Fortune hid in the 
buttery than the old lady beckoned her to her side, and nodding 
her head a great many times, gave her the box, saying softly, 

“ You can run up now, she won’t see you, deary. It’s in a jar 
in the closet. Now’s the time.” 

Ellen could not bear to say no. She hesitated a minute, and 
then boldly opened the buttery door. 

“ Keep out ! — what do you want?” 

“ She wanted me to go for the snuff,” said Ellen in a whisper; 
“ please do let me — I won’t look at any thing nor touch any thing, 
but just get the snuff.” 

With an impatient gesture her aunt snatched the box from her 
hand, pushed Ellen out of the buttery and shut the door. The 
old lady kissed and fondled her as if she had done what she had 
only tried to do ; smoothed down her hair, praising its beauty, and 
whispered, 

“ Never mind deary, — you’ll read to grandma, won’t you?” 

It cost Ellen no effort now. With the beginning of kind offices 
to her poor old parent, kind feeling had sprung up fast ; instead 
of disliking and shunning she had begun to love her. 

There was no dinner for any one this day. Mr. and Mrs. Van 
Brunt came to an early tea ; after which Ellen was sent to dress 
herself, and Mr. Van Brunt to get some pieces of board for the 
meat-choppers. He came back presently with an armful of square 
bits of wood ; and sitting down before the fire began to whittle the 
rough sawn ends over the hearth. His mother grew nervous. Miss 
Fortune bore it as she would have borne it from no one else, but 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 247 

vexation was gathering in her breast for the first occasion. Pres- 
ently Ellen’s voice was heard singing down the stairs. 

“I’d give something to stop that child’s pipe!” said Miss For- 
tune ; “ she’s eternally singing the same thing over and over — some- 
thing about £ a charge to keep’ — I’d a good notion to give her a 
charge to keep this morning; it would have been to hold her 
tongue.’ ’ 

“That would have been a public loss, I think,” said Mr. Van 
Brunt gravely. 

“ Well, you are making a precious litter !” said the lady, turning 
short upon him. 

“Never mind,” said he in the same tone, — “it’s nothing but 
what the fire’ll burn up anyhow ; don’t worry yourself about it.” 

Just as Ellen came in, so did Nancy by the other door. 

“What are you here for?” said Miss Fortune with an ireful 
face. 

“Oh! — Come to see the folks and get some peaches,” said 
Nancy ; — “ come to help along, to be sure.” 

“ Ain’t your grandma coming?” 

“No, ma’am, she ain’t. I knew she wouldn’t be of much use, 
so I thought I wouldn’t ask her.” 

Miss Fortune immediately ordered her out. Half laughing, 
half serious, Nancy tried to keep her ground, but Miss Fortune 
was in no mood to hear parleying. She laid violent hands on the 
passive Nancy, and between pulling and pushing at last got her out 
and shut the door. Her next sudden move was to haul off her 
mother to bed. Ellen looked her sorrow at this, and Mr. Van 
Brunt whistled his thoughts ; but that either made nothing, or 
made Miss Fortune more determined. Off she went with her old 
mother under her arm. While she was gone Ellen brought the 
broom to sweep up the hearth, but Mr. Van Brunt would not let 
her. 

“ No,” said he, — “ it’s more than you nor I can do. You know,” 
said he with a sly look, “ we might sweep up the shavings into the 
wrong corner !’ ’ 

This entirely overset Ellen’s gravity, and unluckily she could 
not get it back again, even though warned by Mrs. Van Brunt that 
her aunt was coming. Trying only made it worse, and Miss For- 
tune’s entrance was but the signal for a fresh burst of hearty mer- 
riment. What she was laughing at was of course instantly asked, 
in no pleased tone of voice. Ellen could not tell ; and her silence 
and blushing only made her aunt more curious. 

“ Come, leave bothering her,” said Mr. Van Brunt at last, “ she 
was only laughing at some of my nonsense, and she won’t tell on 
me.” 

“ Will you swear to that?” said the lady sharply. 


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“ Humph ! — no, I won’t swear ; unless you will go before a mag- 
istrate with me ; — but it is true.” 

“ I wonder if you think I am as easy blinded as all that comes 
to!” said Miss Fortune, scornfully. 

And Ellen saw that her aunt’s displeasure was all gathered upon 
her for the evening. She was thinking of Alice’s words and try- 
ing to arm herself with patience and gentleness, when the door 
opened, and in walked Nancy as demurely as if nobody had ever 
seen her before. 

“ Miss Fortune, granny sent me to tell you she is sorry she can’t 
come to-night — she don’t think it would do for her to be out so late, 
— she’s a little touch of the rheumatics, she says.” 

“ Very well,” said Miss Fortune. “ Now clear out !” 

“ You had better not say so, Miss Fortune — I’ll do as much for 
you as any two of the rest, — see if I don’t !” 

“ I don’t care — if you did as much as fifty !” said Miss Fortune, 
impatiently. “ I won’t have you here; so go, or I’ll give you 
something to help you along.” 

Nancy saw she had no chance with Miss Fortune in her present 
humour, and went quickly out. A little while after Ellen was 
standing at the window, from which through the shed window she 
had a view of the chip-yard, and there she saw Nancy lingering 
still, walking round and round in a circle, and kicking the snow 
with her feet in a discontented fashion. 

“I am very glad she isn’t going to be here,” thought Ellen. 
“But, poor thing! I dare say she is very much disappointed. 
And how sorry she will feel going back all that long, long way 
home ! — what if I should get her leave to stay ? wouldn’t it be a 
fine way of returning good for evil ? — But oh, dear ! I don’t want 
her here ! But that’s no matter — ” 

The next minute Mr. Van Brunt was half startled by Ellen’s 
hand on his shoulder, and the softest of whispers in his ear. He 
looked up, very much surprised. 

“ Why, do you want her?” said he, likewise in a low tone. 

“No,” said Ellen, “ but I know I should feel very sorry if I 
was in her place.” 

Mr. Van Brunt whistled quietly to himself. “ Well !” said he, 
“ you are a good-natured piece.” 

“Miss Fortune,” said he presently, “if that mischievous girl 
comes in again I recommend you to let her stay.” 

“Why?” 

“ ’Cause it’s true what she said — she’ll do you as much good as 
half a dozen. She’ll behave herself this evening, I’ll engage, 
or if she don’t I’ll make her.” 

“She’s too impudent to live! But I don’t care — her grand- 
mother is another sort, — but I guess she is gone by this time.” 


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249 


Ellen waited only till her aunt’s back was turned. She slipped 
down stairs and out at the kitchen door, and ran up the slope to 
the fence of the chip-yard. 

“ Nancy — Nancy !” 

“ What?” said Nancy, wheeling about. 

“ If you go in now 1 guess aunt Fortune will let you stay.” 

“ What makes you think so?” said the other surlily. 

“ ’ Cause Mr. Van Brunt was speaking to her about it. Go in 
and you’ll see.” 

Nancy looked doubtfully at Ellen’s face, and then ran hastily 
in. More slowly Ellen went back by the way she came. When 
she reached the upper kitchen she found Nancy as busy as possi- 
ble, — as much at home already as if she had been there all day ; 
helping to set the table in the hall, and going to and fro between 
that and the buttery with an important face. Ellen was not suf- 
fered to help, nor even to stand and see what was doing ; so she 
sat down in the corner by her old friend Mrs. Van Brunt, and 
with her head in her lap watched by the firelight the busy figures 
that went back and forward, and Mr. Van Brunt who still sat 
working at his bits of board. There were pleasant thoughts in 
Ellen’s head that kept the dancing blaze company. Mr. Van 
Brunt once looked up and asked what she was smiling at ; the 
smile brightened at his question, but he got no more answer. 

At last the supper was all set out in the hall so that it could 
very easily be brought into the parlour when the time came ; the 
waiter with the best cups and saucers, which always stood covered 
with a napkin on the table in the front room, was carried away ; 
the great pile of wood in the parlour fireplace, built ever since 
morning, was kindled ; all was in apple-pie order, and nothing was 
left but to sweep up the shavings that Mr. Van Brunt had made. 
This was done ; and then Nancy seized hold of Ellen. 

“Come along,” said she, pulling her to the window, — “come 
along, and let us watch the folks come in.” 

“ But it isn’t time for them to be here yet,” said Ellen, “-the fire 
is only just burning.” 

“ Fiddle-de-dee ! they won’t wait for the fire to burn, I can tell 
you. They’ll be along directly, some of them. I wonder what 
Miss Fortune is thinking of, — that fire had ought to have been 
burning this long time ago, — but they won’t set to work till they 
all get here, that’s one thing. Do you know what’s going to be for 
supper?” 

“ No.” 

“ Not a bit?” 

“ No.” 

“ Ain’t that funny ! Then I’m better off than you. I say, Ellen, 
any one would think /was Miss Fortune’s niece and you was some- 


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body else, wouldn’t they? Goodness! I’m glad I ain’t. I am 
going to make part of the supper myself, — what do you think of 
that? Miss Fortune always has grand suppers — when she has ’em 
at all; ’tain’t very often, that’s one thing. I wish she’d have a 
bee every week, I know, and let me come and help. Hark ! — didn’t 
I tell you? there’s somebody coming this minute ; don’t you hear 
the sleigh-bells? I’ll tell you who it is now; it’s the Lawsons; 
you see if it ain’t. It’s good it’s such a bright night — we can see 
’em first-rate. There — here they come — just as I told you — here’s 
Mirny Lawson the first one — if there’s any body I do despise it’s 
Mimy Lawson.” 

“Hush!” said Ellen. The door opened and the lady herself 
walked in followed by three others — large, tall women, muffled from 
head to foot against the cold. The quiet kitchen was speedily 
changed into a scene of bustle. Loud talking and laughing — a 
vast deal of unrobing — pushing back and pulling up chairs on the 
hearth — and Nancy and Ellen running in and out of the room with 
countless wrappers, cloaks, shawls, comforters, hoods, mittens, and 
moccasins. 

u What a precious muss it will be to get ’em all their own things 
when they come to go away again,” said Nancy. “ Throw ’em all 
down there, Ellen, in that heap. Now come quick — somebody else 
’ll be here directly.” 

u Which is Miss Mimy?” said Ellen. 

“ That big ugly woman in a purple frock. The one next her is 
Kitty — the black-haired one is Mary, and t’other is Fanny. Ugh ! 
don’t look at ’em ; I can’t bear ’em.” 

“ Why?” 

“ ’Cause I don’t, I can tell you ; reason good. They are as stingy 
as they can live. Their way is to get as much as they can out of 
other folks, and let other folks get as little as they can out of them. 
I know ’em. Just watch that purple frock when it comes to the 
eating. There’s Mr. Bob.” 

“ Mr. who ?” 

“Bob — Bob Lawson. He’s a precious small young man, for 
such a big one. There — go take his hat. Miss Fortune,” said 
Nancy coming forward, “ mayn’t the gentlemen take care of their 
own things in the stoop, or must the young ladies wait upon them 
too? t’other room won’t hold every thing neither.” 

This speech raised a general laugh, in the midst of which Mr. 
Bob carried his own hat and cloak into the shed as desired. Before 
Nancy had done chuckling came another arrival ; a tall, lank gentle- 
man, with one of those unhappy-shaped faces that are very broad 
at the eyes and very narrow across the chops, and having a par- 
ticularly grave and dull expression. He was welcomed with such 
a shout of mingled laughter, greeting, and jesting, that the room 


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251 


was in a complete hurly-burly ; and a plain-looking stout elderly lady, 
who had come in just behind him, was suffered to stand unnoticed. 

“ It’s Miss Janet,” whispered Nancy, — “ Mr. Marshchalk’s aunt. 
Nobody wants to see her here ; she’s one of your pious kind, and 
that’s a kind your aunt don’t take to.” 

Instantly Ellen was at her side, offering gently to relieve her of 
hood and cloak, and with a tap on his arm drawing Mr. Van Brunt’s 
attention to the neglected person. 

Quite touched by the respectful politeness of her manner, the 
old lady inquired of Miss Fortune as Ellen went off with a load of 
mufflers, “ who was that sweet little thing?” 

“ It’s a kind of sweetmeats that is kept for company, Miss Janet,” 
replied Miss Fortune with a darkened brow. 

“ She’s too good for every-day use, that’s a fact,” remarked Mr. 
Van Brunt. 

Miss Fortune coloured and tossed her head, and the company 
were for a moment still with surprise. Another arrival set them 
agoing again. 

“ Here come the Hitchcocks, Ellen,” said Nancy. 11 Walk in, 
Miss Mary — walk in, Miss Jenny — Mr. Marshchalk has been here 
this great while.” 

Miss Mary Hitchcock was in nothing remarkable. Miss Jenny 
when her wrappers were taken off showed a neat little round figure, 
and a round face of very bright and good-humoured expression. 
It fastened Ellen’s eye, till Nancy whispered her to look at Mr. 
Juniper Hitchcock, and that young gentleman entered dressed in 
the last style of elegance. His hair was arranged in a faultless 
manner — unless perhaps it had a little too much of the tallow can- 
dle ; for when he had sat for a while before the fire it had some- 
what the look of being excessively wet with perspiration. His 
boots were as shiny as his hair ; his waistcoat was of a startling 
pattern ; his pantaloons were very tightly strapped down ; and at 
the end of a showy watch-ribbon hung some showy seals. 

The kitchen was now one buzz of talk and good-humour. Ellen 
stood half smiling herself to see the universal smile, when Nancy 
twitched her. 

11 Here’s more coming — Cilly Dennison, I guess — no, it’s too 
tall ; — who is it ?” 

But Ellen flung open the door with a half-uttered scream and 
threw herself into the arms of Alice, and then led her in ; her face 
full of such extreme joy that it was perhaps one reason why her 
aunt’s wore a very doubtful air as she came forward. That could 
not stand however against the graceful politeness and pleasantness 
of Alice’s greeting. Miss Fortune’s brow smoothed, her voice 
cleared, she told Miss Humphreys she was very welcome, and she 
meant it. Clinging fflose to her friend as she went from one to 


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another, Ellen was delighted to see that every one echoed the weh 
come. Every face brightened at meeting hers, every eye softened, 
and Jenny Hitchcock even threw her arms round Alice and kissed 
her. 

Ellen left now the window to Nancy and stood fast by her 
adopted sister, with a face of satisfaction it was pleasant to see, 
watching her very lips as they moved. Soon the door opened 
again, and various voices hailed the new-comer as “ Jane,” “ Jany,” 
and “ Jane Huff.” She was a decidedly plain-looking country girl, 
but when she came near, Ellen saw a sober sensible face and a look 
of thorough good nature which immediately ranked her next to 
Jenny Hitchcock in her fancy. Mr. Bill Huff followed, a sturdy 
young man ; quite as plain and hardly so sensible-looking, he was 
still more shining with good-nature. He made no pretension to the 
elegance of Mr. Juniper Hitchcock; but before the evening was 
over, Ellen had a vastly greater respect for him. 

Last, not least, came the Dennisons ; it took Ellen some time to 
make up her mind about them. Miss Cilly, or Cecelia, was cer- 
tainly very elegant indeed. Her hair was in the extremest state 
of nicety, with a little round curl plastered in front of each ear ; 
how she coaxed them to stay there Ellen could not conceive. She 
wore a real watch, there was no doubt of that, and there was even 
a ring on one of her fingers with two or three blue or red stones in 
it. Her dress was smart, and so was her figure, and her face was 
pretty; and Ellen overheard one of the Lawsons whisper to Jenny 
Hitchcock that “ there wasn’t a greater lady in the land than Cilly 
Dennison.” Her brother was very different; tall and athletic, and 
rather handsome, he made no pretension to be a gentleman. He 
valued his fine farming and fine cattle a great deal higher than 
Juniper Hitchcock’s gentility. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


Wi’ merry sangs, an’ friendly cracks 
I wat they didna weary : 

An’ unco tales, an’ funnie jokes, 

Their sports were cheap an' cheery. 

Burns. 

As the party were all gathered it was time to set to work. The 
fire in the front room was burning up finely now, but Miss Fortune 
had no idea of having pork-chopping or apple-paring done there. 
One party was despatched down stairs into the lower kitchen ; the 
others made a circle round the fire. Every one was furnished with 
a sharp knife, and a basket of apples was given to each two or 


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253 


three. Now it would be hard to say whether talking or working 
went on best. Not faster moved the tongues than the fingers ; not 
smoother went the knives than the flow of talk ; while there was a 
constant leaping of quarters of apples from the hands that had 
prepared them into the bowls, trays, or what-not, that stood on the 
hearth to receive them. Ellen had nothing to do ; her aunt had 
managed it so, though she would gladly have shared the work that 
looked so pretty and pleasant in other people’s hands. Miss Fortune 
would not let her ; so she watched the rest, and amused herself as 
well as she could with hearing and seeing ; and standing between 
Alice and Jenny Hitchcock, she handed them the apples out of the 
basket as fast as they were ready for them. It was a pleasant evening 
that. Laughing and talking went on merrily ; stories were told ; 
anecdotes, gossip, jokes, passed from mouth to mouth ; and not one 
made himself so agreeable, or had so much to do with the life and 
pleasure of the party, as Alice. Ellen saw it, delighted. The 
pared apples kept dancing into the bowls and trays ; the baskets 
got empty surprisingly fast ; Nancy and Ellen had to run to the 
barrels in the shed again and again for fresh supplies. 

“Do they mean to do all these to-night?” said Ellen to Nancy 
on one of these occasions. 

“I don’t know what they mean, I am sure,” replied Nancy, 
diving down into the barrel to reach the apples ; “ if you had asked 
me what Miss Fortune meant, I might ha’ given a guess.” 

“ But only look,” said Ellen, — “ only so many done, and all these 
to do ! — Well, I know what ‘ busy as a bee’ means now, if I never 
did before.” 

“You’ll know it better to-morrow, I can tell you.” 

“ Why?” 

“ Oh, wait till you see. I wouldn’t be you to-morrow for some- 
thing though. Do you like sewing?” 

“Sewing!” said Ellen. But “Girls! girls! — what are you 
leaving the door open for!” — sounded from the kitchen, and they 
hurried in. 

“’Most got through, Nancy?” inquired Bob Lawson. (Miss 
Fortune had gone down stairs.) 

“Ha’n’t begun to, Mr. Lawson. There’s every bit as many to 
do as there was at your house t’other night.” 

“ What on airth does she want with such a sight of ’em,” inquired 
Dan Dennison. 

“ Live on pies and apple-sass till next summer,” suggested Mirny 
Lawson. 

“ That’s the stuff for my money !” replied her brother ; “ ’taters 
and apple-sass is my sass in the winter.” 

“ It’s good those is easy got,” said his sister Mary ; “ the sass is 
the most of the dinner to Bob most commonly.” 

2 


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“ Are they fixing for more apple-sass down stairs ?” Mr. Dennison 
went on rather dryly. 

“ No — hush !” — said Juniper Hitchcock, — “ sassages !” 

“Humph!” said Dan, as he speared up an apple out of the 
basket on the point of his knife, — “ ain’t that something like what 
you call killing two ” 

“Just that exactly,” said Jenny Hitchcock, as Dan broke off 
short, and the mistress of the house walked in. “Ellen,” she 
whispered, “don’t you want to go down stairs and see when the 
folks are coming up to help us? And tell the doctor he must be 
spry, for we ain’t a go’ng to get through in a hurry,” she added, 
laughing. 

“ Which is the doctor, ma’am ?” 

“The doctor — Doctor Marshchalk — don’t you know ?” 

“ Is he a doctor?” said Alice. 

“ No, not exactly, I suppose, but he’s just as good as the real. 
He’s a natural knack at putting bones in their places and all that 
sort of thing. There was a man broke his leg horribly at Thirl- 
”Wall the other day, and Gibson was out of the way, and Marsh- 
chalk set it, and did it famously they said. So go, Ellen, and 
bring us word what they are all about.” 

Mr. Van Brunt was head of the party in the lower kitchen. 
He stood at one end of the table, cutting with his huge knife the 
hard-frozen pork into very thin slices, which the rest of the com- 
pany took and before they had time to thaw cut up into small dice 
on the little boards Mr. Van Brunt had prepared. As large a fire 
as the chimney would hold was built up and blazing finely ; the 
room looked as cosey and bright as the one up stairs, and the people 
as busy and as talkative. They had less to do, however, or they 
had been more smart, for they were drawing to the end of their 
chopping ; of which Miss Janet declared herself very glad, for 
she said, “the wind came sweeping in under the doors and freez- 
ing her feet the whole time, and she was sure the biggest fire 
ever was built couldn’t warm that room;” an opinion in which 
Mrs. Van Brunt agreed perfectly. Miss Janet no sooner spied 
Ellen standing in the chimney-corner than she called her to her 
side, kissed her, and talked to her a long time, and finally fum- 
bling in her pocket brought forth an odd little three-cornered pin- 
cushion which she gave her for a keepsake. Jane Huff and her 
brother also took kind notice of her ; and Ellen began to think the 
world was full of nice people. About half-past eight the choppers 
went up and joined the company who were paring apples ; the 
circle was a very large one now, and the buzz of tongues grew 
quite furious. 

“What are you smiling at?” asked Alice of Ellen, who stood 
at her elbow. 


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255 


“Oh, I don't know,” said Ellen, smiling more broadly; and 
presently added, — “ they’re all so kind to me.” 

“Who?” 

“ Oh, every body — Miss Jenny, and Miss Jane Huff, and Miss 
Janet, and Mrs. Van Brunt, and Mr. Huff, — they all speak so 
kindly and look so kindly at me. But it’s very funny what a 
notion people have for kissing — I wish they hadn’t — I’ve run away 
from three kisses already, and I’m so afraid somebody else will try 
next.” 

“You don’t seem very bitterly displeased,” said Alice smiling. 

“ I am, though, — I can’t bear it,” said Ellen, laughing and blush- 
ing. “There’s Mr. Dennison caught me in the first place and 
tried to kiss me, but I tried so hard to get away I believe he saw 
I was really in good earnest and let me go. And just now, — only 
think of it, — while I was standing talking to Miss Jane Huff down 
stairs, her brother caught me and kissed me before I knew what 
he was going to do. I declare it’s too bad !” said Ellen, rubbing 
her cheek very hard as if she would rub off the affront. 

“ You must let it pass, my dear ; it is one way of expressing 
kindness. They feel kindly toward you or they would not do it.” 

“ Then I wish they wouldn’t feel quite so kindly,” said Ellen — 
“ that’s all. Hark ! — what was that?” 

“What is that?” said somebody else, and instantly there was 
silence, broken again after a minute or two by the faint blast of a 
horn. 

“ It’s old Father Swaim, I reckon,” said Mr. Van Brunt. “ I’ll 
go fetch him in.” 

“Oh, yes! bring him in — bring him in,” was heard on all 
sides. 

“ That horn makes me think of what happened to me once,” 
said Jenny Hitchcock to Ellen. “ I was a little girl at school, not 
so big as you are, — and one afternoon when we were all as still as 
mice and studying away, we heard Father Swaim’s horn” — 

“ What does he blow it for?” said Ellen, as Jenny stooped for 
her knife which she had let fall. 

“ Oh, to let people know he’s there, you know ; did you never 
see Father Swaim ?” 

“ No.” 

“ La ! he’s the funniest old fellow ! He goes round and round 
the country carrying the newspapers ; and we get him to bring us 
our letters from the post-office, when there are any. He carries 
’em in a pair of saddle-bags hanging across that old white horse of 
his — I don’t think that horse will ever grow old, no more than his 
master, — and in summer he has a stick — so long — with a horse’s 
tail tied to the end of it, to brush away the flies, for the poor 
horse has had his tail cut off pretty short. I wonder if it isn’t 


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the very same,” said Jenny, laughing heartily; “Father Swaim 
thought he could manage it best, I guess.” 

“ But what was it that happened to you that time at school ?” 
said Ellen. 

“ Why, when we heard the horn blow, our master, the school- 
master you know, went out to get a paper ; and I was tired with 
sitting still, so I jumped up and ran across the room and then back 
again, and over and back again five or six times ; and when he came 
in one of the girls up and told of it. It was Fanny Lawson,” said 
Jenny in a whisper to Alice, “ and I think she ain’t much different 
now from what she was then. I can hear her now, — ‘ Mr. Starks, 
Jenny Hitchcock’s been running all round the room.’ Well, what 
do you think he did to me ? He took hold of my two hands and 
swung me round and round by the arms till I didn’t know which 
was head and which was feet.” 

“ What a queer schoolmaster!” said Ellen. 

“ Queer enough ; you may say that. His name was Starks ; — 
the boys used to call him Starksification. We did hate him, that’s 
a fact. I’ll tell you what he did to a black boy of ours — you know 
our black Sam, Alice? — I forget what he had been doing; but 
Starks took him so — by the rims of the ears, and danced him up 
and down upon the floor.” 

“ But didn’t that hurt him ?” 

“Hurt him! I guess it did! he meant it should. He tied me 
under the table once. Sometimes when he wanted to punish two 
boys at a time he would set them to spit in each other’s faces.” 

“ Oh, don’t tell me about him !” cried Ellen, with a face of hor- 
ror ; “ I don’t like to hear it.” 

Jenny laughed; and just then the door opened and Mr. Van 
Brunt and the old news-carrier came in. 

He was a venerable mild-looking old man, with thin hair as white 
as snow. He wore a long snuff-coloured coat, and a broad-brimmed 
hat, the sides of which were oddly looped up to the crown with 
twine ; his tin horn or trumpet was in his hand. His saddle bags 
were on Mr. Yan Brunt’s arm. As soon as she saw him Ellen was 
fevered with the notion that perhaps he had something for her, and 
she forgot every thing else. It would seem that the rest of the 
company had the same hope, for they crowded round him shout- 
ing out welcomes and questions and inquiries for letters, all in a 
breath. 

“Softly — softly,” said the old man, sitting down slowly; “not 
all at once ; I can’t attend to you all at once ; — one at a time — one 
at a time.” 

“Don’t attend to ’em at all till you’re ready,” said Miss For- 
tune, — “ let ’em wait.” And she handed him a glass of cider. 

He drank it off at a breath, smacking his lips as he gave back 


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257 


the glass to her hand, and exclaiming, “ That’s prime!” Then 
taking up his saddle-bags from the floor, he began slowly to undo 
the fastenings. 

“ You are going to our house to-night, ain’t you, Father Swaim ?” 
said Jenny. 

“ That’s where I was going,” said the old man ; u I was a going 
to stop with your father, Miss Jenny ; but since I’ve got into far- 
mer Van Brunt’s hands, I don’t know any more what’s going to 
become of me ; — and after that glass of cider I don’t much care ! 
Now let’s see, — let’s see — ‘ Miss Jenny Hitchcock,” — here’s some- 
thing for you. I should like very much to know what’s inside of 
that letter — there’s a blue seal to it. Ah, young folks! — young 
folks !” 

Jenny received her letter amidst a great deal of laughing and 
joking, and seemed herself quite as much amused as any body. 

“ ‘ Jedediah B. Lawson,’ — there’s for your father, Miss Mirny; 
that saves me a long tramp — if you’ve twenty-one cents in your 
pocket, that is; if you ha’ n’t, I shall be obleeged to tramp after 
that. Here’s something for ’most all of you, I’m thinking. 1 Miss 
Cecilia Dennison,’ — your fair hands — how’s the Squire? — rheuma- 
tism, eh? I think I’m a younger man now than, your father, 
Cecilly ; and yet I must ha’ seen a good many years more than 
Squire Dennison ; — I must surely. 1 Miss Fortune Emerson,’ — 
that’s for you; a double letter, ma’am.” 

Ellen, with a beating heart, had pressed nearer and nearer to the 
old man, till she stood close by his right hand, and could see every 
letter as he handed it out. A spot of deepening red was on each 
cheek as her eye eagerly scanned letter after letter ; it spread to a 
sudden flush when the last name was read. Alice watched in some 
anxiety her keen look as it followed the letter from the old man’s 
hand to her aunt’s, and thence to the pocket, where Miss Fortune 
coolly bestowed it. Ellen could not stand this ; she sprang for- 
ward across the circle. 

“ Aunt Fortune, there’s a letter inside of that for me — won’t 
you give it to me? — won’t you give it to me ?” she repeated trem- 
bling. 

Her aunt did not notice her by so much as a look ; she turned 
away and began talking to some one else. The red had left Ellen’s 
face when Alice could see it again ; — it was livid and spotted from 
stifled passion. She stood in a kind of maze. But as her eye 
caught Alice’s anxious and sorrowful look she covered her face 
with her hands, and as quick as possible made her escape out of 
the room. 

For some minutes Alice heard none of the hubbub around her. 
Then came a knock at the door, and the voice of Thomas Grimes 
saying to Mr. Van Brunt that Miss Humphreys’ horse was there. 
t 22 * 


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11 Mr. Swaim,” said Alice rising, “ I don’t like to leave you with 
these gay friends of ours ; you’ll stand no chance of rest with 
them to-night. Will you ride home with me ?” 

Many of the party began to beg Alice would stay to supper, but 
she said her father would be uneasy. The old news-carrier con- 
cluded to go with her, for he said “ there was a p’int he wanted to 
mention to parson Humphreys that he had forgotten to bring 



for’ard when they were talking on that ’ere subject two months 
ago.” So Nancy brought her things from the next room and helped 
her on with them, and looked pleased, as well she might, at the 
smile and kind words with which she was rewarded. Alice lin- 
gered at her leave-taking, hoping to see Ellen ; but it was not till 
the last moment that Ellen came in. She did not say a word 5 but 
the two little arms were put around Alice’s neck and held her with 


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a long, close earnestness which did not pass from her mind all the 
evening afterwards. 

When she was gone the company sat down again to business ; 
and apple-paring went on more steadily than ever for a while, till 
the bottom of the barrels was seen, and the last basketful of apples 
was duly emptied. Then there was a general shout ; the kitchen 
was quickly cleared, and every body’s face brightened, as much as 
to say, “Now for fun !” While Ellen and Nancy and Miss For- 
tune and Mrs. Van Brunt were running all ways with trays, pans, 
baskets, knives, and buckets, the fun began by Mr. Juniper Hitch- 
cock’s whistling in his dog and setting him to do various feats for 
the amusement of the company. There followed such a rushing, 
leaping, barking, laughing, and scolding, on the part of the dog 
and his admirers, that the room was in an uproar. He jumped 
over a stick ; he got into a chair and sat up on two legs ; he kissed 
the ladies’ hands ; he suffered an apple-paring to be laid across his 
nose, then threw it up with a jerk and caught it in his mouth. 
Nothing very remarkable certainly, but, as Miss Fortune observed 
to somebody, “if he had been the learned pig there couldn’t ha’ 
been more fuss made over him.” 

Ellen stood looking on, smiling partly at the dog and his master, 
and partly at the antics of the company. Presently Mr. Van 
Brunt, bending down to her, said, 

“ What is the matter with your eyes?” 

“Nothing,” said Ellen starting, — “at least nothing that’s any 
matter, I mean.” 

“Come here,” said he, drawing heron one side; “tell me all 
about it — what is the matter?” 

“Never mind — please don’t ask me, Mr. Van Brunt — it’s noth- 
ing I ought to tell you — it isn’t any matter.” 

But her eyes were full again, and he still held her fast doubt- 
fully. 

“ Til tell you about P, Mr. Van Brunt,” said Nancy as she came 
past them, — “ you let her go, and I’ll tell you by and by.” 

And Ellen tried in vain afterwards to make her promise she 
would not. 

“Come, June,” said Miss Jenny, “we have got enough of you 
and Jumper — turn him out ; we are going to have the cat now. 
Q om e! — Puss, puss in the corner! (Jo off in t’other room, will 
you, every body that don’t want to play. Puss, puss? — ” 

Now the fun began in good earnest, and few minutes had passed 
before Ellen was laughing with all her heart, as if she never had 
had any thing to cry for in her life. After “puss, puss in the 
corner” came “blind-man’s-buff;” and this was played with great 
spirit, the two most distinguished being Nancy and Dan Dennison, 
though Miss Fortune played admirably well. Ellen had seen Nancy 


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play before ; but sbe forgot ber own part of tbe game in sheer 
amazement at tbe way Mr. Dennison managed his long body, which 
seemed to go where there was no room for it, and vanish into air 
just when the grasp of some grasping “blind man” was ready to 
fasten upon him. And when he was blinded, he seemed to know 
by instinct where the walls were, and keeping clear of them he 
would swoop like a hawk from one end of the room to the other, 
pouncing upon the unlucky people who could by no means get out 
of the way fast enough. When this had lasted a while there was 
a general call for “ the fox and the goose and Miss Fortune was 
pitched upon for the latter ; she having in the other game showed 
herself capable of good generalship. But who for the fox ? Mr. 
Van Brunt? 

“Not I,” said Mr. Van Brunt, — “there ain’t nothing of the 
fox about me ; Miss Fortune would beat me all hollow.” 

“ Who then, farmer?” said Bill Huff ; — “ come, who is the fox? 
Will I do ?” 

“Not you, Bill ; the goose ’ud be too much for you.” 

There was a general shout, and cries of “ who then ?” “ who 
then?” 

“Dan Dennison,” said Mr. Van Brunt. “Now look out for a 
sharp fight.” 

Amidst a great deal of laughing and confusion the line was 
formed, each person taking hold of a handkerchief or band passed 
round the waist of the person before him, except when the women 
held by each other’s skirts. They were ranged according to height, 
the tallest being next their leader the “goose.” Mr. Van Brunt 
and the elder ladies, and two or three more, chose to be lookers-on, 
and took post outside the door. 

Mr. Dennison began by taking off his coat, to give himself 
more freedom in his movements ; for his business was to catch the 
train of the goose, one by one, as each in turn became the hind- 
most ; while her object was to baffle him and keep her family 
together, meeting him with outspread arms at every rush he made 
to seize one of her brood ; while the long train behind her, fol- 
lowing her quick movements and swaying from side to side to get 
out of the reach of the furious fox, was sometimes in the shape of 
the letter C, and sometimes in that of the letter S, and sometimes 
looked like a long snake with a curling tail. Loud was the laugh- 
ter, shrill the shrieks, as the fox drove them hither and thjther, 
and seemed to be in all parts of the room at once. He was a 
cunning fox that, as well as a bold one. Sometimes, when they 
thought him quite safe, held at bay by the goose, he dived under 
or leaped over her outstretched arms and almost snatched hold of 
little Ellen, who being the least was the last one of the party. 
But Ellen played very well, and just escaped him two or three 


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261 


times, till lie declared she gave him so much trouble that when he 
caught her he would “ kiss her the worst kind.” Ellen played 
none the worse for that ; however she was caught at last, and 
kissed too ; there was no help for it ; so she bore it as well as she 
could. Then she watched, and laughed till the tears ran down her 
cheeks to see how the fox and the goose dodged each other, what 
tricks were played, and how the long train pulled each other about. 
At length Nancy was caught; and then Jenny Hitchcock; and 
then Cecilia Dennison ; and then Jane Huff, and so on, till at last 
the fox and the goose had a long struggle for Mirny Lawson, 
which would never have come to an end if Mirny had not gone 
over to the enemy. 

There was a general pause. The hot and tired company were 
seated round the room, panting and fanning themselves with their 
pocket-handkerchiefs, and speaking in broken sentences ; glad to 
rest even from laughing. Miss Fortune had thrown herself down 
on a seat close by Ellen, when Nancy came up and softly asked, “Is 
it time to beat the eggs now?” Miss Fortune nodded, and then 
drew her close to receive a long low whisper in her ear, at the end 
of which Nancy ran off. 

“Is there anything / can do, aunt Fortune?” said Ellen, so 
gently and timidly that it ought to have won a kind answer. 

“ Yes,” said her aunt, — “ you may go and put yourself to bed ; 
it’s high time long ago.” And looking round as she moved off 
she added “ Go !” — with a little nod that as much as said, “ I am 
in earnest.” 

Ellen’s heart throbbed ; she stood doubtful. One word to Mr. 
Yan Brunt and she need not go, — that she knew. But as surely 
too that word would make trouble and do harm. And then she 
remembered “ A charge to keep I have !” — She turned quick and 
quitted the room. 

Ellen sat down on the first stairs she came to, for her bosom was 
heaving up and down, and she was determined not to cry. The 
sounds of talking and laughing came to her ear from the parlour, 
and there at her side stood the covered-up supper ; — for a few min- 
utes it was hard work to keep her resolve. The thick breath came 
and went very fast. Through the fanlights of the hall door, oppo- 
site to which she was sitting, the bright moonlight streamed in ;— 
and presently, as Ellen quieted, it seemed to her fancy like a gentle 
messenger from its Maker, bidding his child remember him ; — and 
then came up some words in her memory that her mother s lips had 
fastened there long ago; — “I love them that love me, and they 
that seek me early shall find me.” She remembered her mother 
had told her it is Jesus who says this. Her lost pleasure was well 
nigh forgotten ; and yet as she sat gazing into the moonlight Ellen’s 
eyes were gathering tears very fast. 


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“Well, I am seeking him,” she thought, — “ can it be that he 
loves me? — Oh, I’m so glad !” 

And they were glad tears that little Ellen wiped away as she 
went up stairs ; for it was too cold to sit there long if the moon 
was ever so bright. 

She had her hand on the latch of the door when her grand- 
mother called out from the other room to know who was there. 

“It’s I, grandma.” 

“ Ain’t somebody there ? Come in here — who is it?” 

“ It’s I, grandma,” said Ellen, coming to the door. 

“ Come in here, deary,’ ’ said the old woman in a lower tone, — 
“ what is it all ? what’s the matter ? who’s down stairs ?” 

“It’s a bee, grandma; there’s nothing the matter.” 

“A bee! who’s been stung? what’s all the noise about?” 

“’Tisn’t that kind of bee, grandma; don’t you know? there’s 
a parcel of people that came to pare apples, and they’ve been play- 
ing games in the parlour — that’s all.” 

“ Paring apples, eh? Is there company below?” 

“Yes, ma’am; a whole parcel of people.” 

“ Dear me !” said the old lady, “ I oughtn’t to ha’ been abed ! 
Why ha’ n’t Fortune told me? I’ll get right up. Ellen, you go 
in that fur closet and bring me my paddysoy that hangs there, and 
then help me on with my things; I’ll get right up. Dear me! 
what was Fortune thinking about?” 

The moonlight served very well instead of candles. After twice 
bringing the wrong dresses Ellen at last hit upon the “ paddysoy,” 
which the old lady knew immediately by the touch. In haste, and 
not without some fear and trembling on Ellen’s part, she was ar- 
rayed in it ; her best cap put on, not over hair in the best order 
Ellen feared, but the old lady would not stay to have it made bet- 
ter ; Ellen took care of her down the stairs, and after opening the 
door for her went back to her room. 

A little while had passed, and Ellen was just tying her night- 
cap strings and ready to go peacefully to sleep, when Nancy burst 
in. 

“ Ellen ! Hurry ! you must come right down stairs.” 

“ Down stairs ! — why, I am just ready to go to bed.” 

“No matter — you must come right away down. There’s Mr. 
Van Brunt says he won’t begin supper till you come.” 

“ But does aunt Fortune want me to?” 

“ Yes, I tell you ! and the quicker you come the better she’ll be 
pleased. She sent me after you in all sorts of a hurry. She said 
she didn’t know where you was.” 

“Said she didn’t know where I was! Why, she told me her- 
self ” Ellen began and stopped short. 

“ Of course !” said Nancy, “ don’t you think I know that? But 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 2G3 

he don’t, and if you want to plague her you’ll just tell him. Now 
come and be quick, will you? The supper’s splendid.” 

Ellen lost the first view of the table, for every thing had begun 
to be pulled to pieces before she came in. The company were all 
crowded round the table, eating and talking and helping themselves ; 
and ham and bread and butter, pumpkin pies and mince pies and 
apple pies, cake of various kinds, and glasses of egg-nogg and cider 
were in every body’s hands. One dish in the middle of the big 
table had won the praise of every tongue ; nobody could guess and 
many asked how it was made, but Miss Fortune kept a satisfied 
silence, pleased to see the constant stream of comers to the big dish 
till it was near empty. Just then Mr. Van Brunt seeing Ellen 
had nothing gathered up all that was left and gave it to her. 

It was sweet and cold and rich. Ellen told her mother after- 
wards it was the best thing she had ever tasted except the ice-cream 
she once gave her in New York. She had taken, however, but one 
spoonful when her eye fell upon Nancy, standing back of all the 
company, and forgotten. Nancy had been upon her good behaviour 
all the evening, and it was a singular proof of this that she had 
not pushed in and helped herself among the first. Ellen’s eye 
went once or twice from her plate to Nancy, and then she crossed 
over and offered it to her. It was eagerly taken, and a little dis- 
appointed Ellen stepped back again. But she soon forgot the 
disappointment. “ She’ll know now that I don’t bear her any 
grudge,” she thought. 

“ Ha’n’t you got nothing?” said Nancy, coming up presently, 
“ that wasn’t your’n that you gave me, was it?” 

Ellen nodded smilingly. 

“ Well, there ain’t no more of it,” said Nancy. “The bowl is 
empty.” 

“ I know it,” said Ellen. 

“ Why, didn’t you like it?” 

11 Yes — very much.” 

“ Why, you’re a queer little fish,” said Nancy. “ What did you 
get Mr. Van Brunt to let me in for?” 

“ How did you know I did ?” 

“ ’Cause he told me. Say — what did you do it for? Mr. Den- 
nison, won’t you give Ellen a piece of cake or something? Here 
— take this,” said Nancy, pouncing upon a glass of egg-nogg which 
a gap in the company enabled her to reach ; “ I made it more than 
half myself. Ain’t it good ?” 

“ Yes, very,” said Ellen, smacking her lips; “ what’s in it?” 

“ Oh, plenty of good things. But what made you ask Mr. Van 
Brunt to let me stop to-night? you didn’t tell me — did you want 
me to stay?” 

“ Never mind,” said Ellen ; “ don’t ask me any questions.” 


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“ Yes but I will though, and you’ve got to answer me. Why 
did you ? Come ! — do you like me ? — say ?” 

“ I should like you, I dare say, if you would be different.” 

“ Well, I don’t care,” said Nancy, after a little pause, — “I like 
you, though you’re as queer as you can be. I don’t care whether 
you like me or not. Look here, Ellen, that cake there is the best 
— I know it is, for I’ve tried ’em all. — You know I told Van Brunt 
I would tell him what you were crying about?” 

“ Yes, and I asked you not. Did you ?” 

Nancy nodded, being at the moment still further engaged in 
“ trying” the cake. 

“ I am sorry you did. What did he say ?” 

“ He didn’t say much to me — somebody else will hear of it, I 
guess. He was mad about it, or I am mistaken. What makes 
you sorry ?’ ’ 

“ It will only do harm and make aunt Fortune angry.” 

“Well, that’s just what I should like if I were you. I can’t 
make you out.” 

“ I’d a great deal rather have her like me,” said Ellen. “ Was 
she vexed when grandma came down ?” 

“I don’t know, but she had to keep it to herself if she was; 
every body else was so glad, and Mr. Van Brunt made such a fuss. 
Just look at the old lady, how pleased she is. I declare, if the 
folks ain’t talking of going ! Come, Ellen ! now for the cloaks ! 
you and me ’ll finish our supper afterwards.” 

That, however, was not to be. Nancy was offered a ride home 
to Mrs. Van Brunt’s and a lodging there. They were ready cloaked 
and shawled, and Ellen was still hunting for Miss Janet’s things in 
the moonlit hall, when she heard Nancy close by, in a lower tone 
than common, say, 

“ Ellen — will you kiss me ?” 

Ellen dropped her armful of things, and taking Nancy’s hands, 
gave her truly the kiss of peace. 

When she went up to undress for the second time, she found on 
her bed — her letter ! And with tears Ellen kneeled down and gave 
earnest thanks for this blessing, and that she had been able to gain 
Nancy’s good-will. 


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265 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

“ He was a gentleman on whom I built an absolute trust.” 

Macbeth. 

It was Tuesday the 22d of December, and late in the day. Not 
a pleasant afternoon. The grey snow-clouds hung low ; the air 
was keen and raw. It was already growing dark, and Alice was 
sitting alone in the firelight, when two little feet came running 
round the corner of the house ; the glass door opened and Ellen 
rushed in. 

“I have come! I have come!” she exclaimed. “Oh, dear 
Alice ! I’m so glad !” 

So was Alice if her kiss meant any thing. 

“ But how late, my child ! how late you are.” 

“ Oh, I thought I never was going to get done,” said Ellen, pull- 
ing off her things in a great hurry and throwing them on the sofa, 
— “ but I am here at last. Oh, I’m so glad !” 

“ Why, what has been the matter?” said Alice, folding up what 
Ellen laid down. 

“ Oh, a great deal of matter — I couldn’t think what Nancy 
meant last night — I know very well now. I shan’t want to see 
any more apples all winter. What do you think I have been about 
all to-day, dear Miss Alice ?” 

“Nothing that has done you much harm,” said Alice smiling — 
“ if I am to guess from your looks. You are as rosy as a good 
Spitzenberg yourself.” 

“That’s very funny,” said Ellen laughing, “ for aunt Fortune 
said awhile ago that my cheeks were just the colour of two mealy 
potatoes.” 

“ But about the apples?” said Alice. 

“ Why, this morning I was thinking I would come here so early, 
when the first thing J knew aunt Fortune brought out all those 
heaps and heaps of apples into the kitchen, and made me sit down 
on the floor, and then she gave me a great big needle and set me 
to stringing them all together, and as fast as I strung them she 
hung them up all round the ceiling. I tried very hard to get 
through before, but I could not, and I am so tired ! I thought I 
never should get to the bottom of that big basket.” 

“Never mind, love — come to the fire — we’ll try and forget all 
disagreeable things while we are together.” 

“ I have forgotten it almost already,” said Ellen, as she sat down 
in Alice’s lap and laid her face against hers; — “ I don’t care for it 
at all now.” 


M 


23 


266 


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But her cheeks were fast fading into the uncomfortable colour 
Miss Fortune had spoken of ; and weariness and weakness kept her 
for a while quiet in Alice’s arms, overcoming even the pleasure of 
talking. They sat so till the clock struck half-past five ; then 
Alice proposed they should go into the kitchen and see Margery, 
and order the tea made, which she had no doubt Ellen wanted. 
Margery welcomed her with great cordiality. She liked any body 
that Alice liked, but she had besides declared to her husband that 
Ellen was “ an uncommon, well-behaved child.” She said she 
would put the tea to draw, and they should have it in a very few 
minutes. 

11 But, Miss Alice, there’s an Irish body out by, waiting to speak 
to you. I was just coming in to tell you ; will you please to see 
her now ?” 

11 Certainly — let her come in. Is she in the cold, Margery?” 

“ No, Miss Alice — there’s a fire there this evening. I’ll call 
her.” 

The woman came up from the lower kitchen at the summons. 
She was young, rather pretty, and with a pleasant countenance, but 
unwashed, uncombed, untidy, — no wonder Margery’s nicety had 
shrunk from introducing her into her spotless upper kitchen. The 
unfailing Irish cloak was drawn about her, the hood brought over 
her head, and on the head and shoulders the snow lay white, not 
yet melted away. 

II Did you wish to speak to me, my friend ?” said Alice pleasantly. 

“If ye plase, ma’am, it’s the master I’m wanting,” said the 

woman, dropping a curtsey. 

“ My father? Margery, will you tell him ?” 

Margery departed. 

“ Come nearer the fire,” said Alice, — “ and sit down : my father 
will be here presently. It is snowing again, is it not?” 

“ It is, ma’am ; — a bitter storm.” 

“ Have you come far?” 

“ It’s a good bit, my lady — it’s more nor a mile beyant Carra — 
just right forgin the ould big hill they call the Catchback ; — in 
Jemmy Morrison’s woods — where Pat M’Farren’s clearing is — it’s 
there I live, my lady.” 

“ That is a long distance indeed for a walk in the snow,” said 
Alice kindly ; u sit down and come nearer the fire. Margery will 
give you something to refresh you.” 

II I thank ye, my lady, but I want nothing man can give me the 
night ; and when one’s on an arrant of life and death, it’s little the 
cold or the storm can do to put out the heart’s fire.” 

“ Life and death? who is sick ?” said Alice. 

“ It’s my own child, ma’am, — my own boy — all the child I have 
— and I’ll have none by the morning light.” 


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267 


“ Is he so ill ?” said Alice ; “ wliat is the matter with him ?” 

“ Myself doesn’t know.” 

The voice was fainter ; the brown cloak was drawn over her face ; 
and Alice and Ellen saw her shoulders heaving with the grief she 
kept from bursting out. They exchanged glances. 

“Sit down,” said Alice again presently, laying her hand upon 
the wet shoulder ; — “ sit down and rest ; my father will be here 
directly. Margery — oh, that’s right, — a cup of tea will do her 
good. What do you want with my father?” . 

“ The Lord bless ye ! — I’ll tell you, my lady.” 

She drank off the tea, but refused something more substantial 
that Margery offered her. 

“ The Lord bless ye ! I couldn’t. My lady, there wasn’t a 
stronger, nor a prettier, nor a swater child, nor couldn’t be, nor he 
was when we left it — it’ll be three years come the fifteenth of April 
next ; but I’m thinking the bitter winters o’ this cowld country has 
chilled the life out o’ him, — and troubles cowlder than all,” she 
added in a lower tone. “ I seed him grow waker an’ waker an’ his 
daar face grow thinner an’ thinner, and the red all left it, only two 
burning spots was on it some days ; an’ I worried the life out o’ 
me for him, an’ all I could do I couldn’t do nothing at all to help 
him, for he just growed waker an’ waker. I axed the father 
wouldn’t he see the doctor about him, but he’s an’ ’asy kind o’ man, 
my lady, an’ he said he would, an’ he never did to this day ; an’ 
John he always said it was no use sinding for the doctor, an’ 
looked so swate at me, an’ said for me not to fret, for sure he’d be 
better soon, or he’d go to a better place. An’ I thought he was 
like a heavenly angel itself already, an’ always was, but then more 
nor ever. Och ! it’s soon that he’ll be one entirely! — let Father 
Shannon say what he will.” 

She sobbed for a minute, while Alice and Ellen looked on, silent 
and pitying. 

“An’ to-night, my lady, he’s very bad,” she went on, wiping 
away the tears that came quickly again, — “ an’ I seed he was going 
fast from me, an’ I was breaking my heart wid the loss of him, 
whin I heard one of the men that was in it say, ‘ What’s this he’s 
saying ?’ says he. ‘ An’ what is it thin ?’ says I. ‘ About the 
jantleman that praaches at Carra,’ says he,— ‘he’s a calling for 
him,’ says he. I knowed there wasn’t a praast at all at Carra, an’ 
I thought he was draaming, or out o’ his head, or crazy wid his 
sickness, like ; an’ I went up close to him, an’ says I, ‘ John,’ says 
I, ‘what is it you want,’ says I, — ‘an’ sure if it’s any thing in 
heaven above or in earth beneath that yer own mother can get for 
ye,’ sa} r s I, — ‘ ye shall have it,’ says I. An’ he put up his two 
arms to my neck an’ pulled my face down to his lips, that was hot 
wid the faver, an’ kissed me — he did — an’ says he, ‘ Mother daar,’ 


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says he, — ‘if ye love me,’ says lie, ‘ fetch me the good jantleman 
that praaches at Carra till I spake to him.’ ‘ Is it the praast you 
want, John my boy?’ says I, — ‘ sure he’s in it,’ says I; — for 
Michael had been for Father Shannon, an’ he had come home wid 
him half an hour before. ‘ Oh, no, mother,’ says he, ‘ it’s not him 
at all that I maan — it’s the jantleman that spakes in the little white 
church at Carra, — he’s not a praast at all,’ says he. ‘An’ who is 
he thin?’ says I, getting up from the bed, ‘or where will I find 
him, or how will I get to him ?’ ‘ Ye’ll not stir a fut for him thin 

the night Kitty Dolan,’ says my husband, — ‘ are ye mad,’ says he ; 

‘ sure it’s not his own head the child has at all at all, or it’s a little 
hiritie he is,’ says he ; ‘ an’ ye won’t show the disrespect to the 
praast in yer own house.’ ‘ I’m maaning none,’ says I, — ‘ nor 
more he isn’t a hiritie, but if he was, he’s a born angel to you 
Michael Dolan anyhow,’ says I ; ‘an’ wid the kiss of his lips on 
my face wouldn’t I do the arrant of my own boy, an’ he a dying? 
by the blessing, an’ I will, if twenty men stud between me an’ it. 
So tell me where I’ll find him, this praast, if there’s the love o’ 
mercy in any sowl o’ ye,’ says I. But they wouldn’t spake a word 
for me, not one of them ; so I axed an’ axed at one place an’ other, 
till here I am. An’ now, my lady, will the master go for me to 
my poor boy? — for he’d maybe be dead while I stand here.” 

“Surely I will,” said Mr. Humphreys, who had come in while 
she was speaking. “Wait but one moment.” 

In a moment he came back ready, and he and the woman set 
forth to their walk. Alice looked out anxiously after them. 

“It storms very hard,” she said, — “ and he has not had his tea ! 
But he couldn’t wait. Come, Ellen, love, we’ll have ours. How 
will he ever get back again ! it will be so deep by that time.” 

There was a cloud on her fair brow for a few minutes, but it 
passed away, and quiet and calm as ever she sat down at the little 
tea-table with Ellen. From her face all shadows seemed to have 
flown for ever. Hungry and happy, she enjoyed Margery’s good 
bread and butter, and the nice honey, and from time to time cast 
very bright looks at the dear face on the other side of the table, 
which could not help looking bright in reply. Ellen was well 
pleased for her part that the third seat was empty. But Alice 
looked thoughtful sometimes as a gust of wind swept by, and once 
or twice went to the window. 

After tea Alice took out her work, and Ellen put herself con- 
tentedly down on the rug, and sat leaning back against her. Si- 
lent for very contentment for a while, she sat looking gravely into 
the fire ; while Alice’s fingers drove a little steel hook through and 
through some purse silk in a mysterious fashion that no eye could 
be quick enough to follow, and with such skill and steadiness that 
the work grew fast under her hand. 


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269 


“ I had such a funny dream last night,” said Ellen. 

“ Did you? what about?” 

“ It was pleasant too,” said Ellen, twisting herself round to talk, 
— ■“ but very queer. I dreamed about that gentleman that was so 
kind to me on board the boat — you know? — I told you about 
him ?” 

“ Yes, I remember.” 

“ Well, I dreamed of seeing him somewhere, I don’t know where, 
— and he didn’t look a bit like himself, only I knew who it was; 
and I thought I didn’t like to speak to him for fear he wouldn’t 
know me, but then I thought he did, and came up and took my 
hand, and seemed so glad to see me ; and he asked me if I had 
I been pious since he saw me.” 

I Ellen stopped to laugh. 

“ And what did you tell him ?” 

“ I told him yes. And then I thought he seemed so very 
pleased.” 

“ Dreamers do not always keep close to the truth, it seems.” 

“ I didn’t,” said Ellen. “But then I thought I had, in my 
dream.” 

u Had what? kept close to the truth?” 

“ No, no ; — been what he said.” 

“ Dreams are queer things,” said Alice. 

“I have been far enough from being good to-day,” said Ellen, 
thoughtfully. 

“ How so, my dear?” 

11 1 don’t know, Miss Alice — because I never am good, I suppose.” 
“ But what has been the matter to-day?” 

“ Why, those apples ! I thought I would come here so early, 
and then when I found I must do all those baskets of apples first 
I was very ill-humoured ; and aunt Fortune saw I was and said 
something that made me worse. And I tried as hard as I could to 
get through before dinner, and when I found I couldn’t I said I 
wouldn’t come to dinner, but she made me, and that vexed me 
more, and I wouldn’t eat scarcely any thing, and then when I got 
back to the apples again I sewed so hard that I ran the needle into 
my finger ever so far, — see there? what a mark it left? — and aunt 
Fortune said it served me right and she was glad of it, and that 
made me angry. I knew I was wrong afterwards, and I was very 
sorry. Isn’t it strange, dear Alice, I should do so when I have 
resolved so hard I wouldn’t?” 

“ Not very, my darling, as long as we have such evil hearts as 
ours are — it is strange they should be so evil.” 

“I told aunt Fortune afterwards I was sorry, but she said 
1 actions speak louder than words, and words are cheap.’ If she 
only wouldn’t say that just as she does ! it does worry me so.” 

23 * 


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“Patience!” said Alice, passing her hand over Ellen’s hair as 
she sat looking sorrowfully up at her ; “ you must try not to give 
her occasion. Never mind what she says, and overcome evil with 
good.” 

“That is just what mamma said!” exclaimed Ellen, rising to 
throw her arms round Alice’s neck, and kissing her with all the 
energy of love, gratitude, repentance, and sorrowful recollection. 

“ Oh, what do you think !” she said suddenly, her face changing 
again, — “ I got my letter last night !” 

“ Your letter !” 

“ Yes, the letter the old man brought — don’t you know ? and it 
was written on the ship, and there was only a little bit from 
mamma, and a little bit from papa, but so good ! papa says she is 
a great deal better, and he has no doubt he will bring her back in 
the spring or summer quite well again. , Isn’t that good?” 

“ Very good, dear Ellen. I am very glad for you.” 

“ It was on my bed last night. I can’t think how it got there, 
— and I don’t care either, so long as I have got it. What are you 
making ?” 

“ A purse,” said Alice, laying it on the table for her inspection. 

“It will be very pretty. Is the other end to be like this?” 

“ Yes, and these tassels to finish them off.” 

“Oh, that’s beautiful,” said Ellen, laying them down to try 
the effect ; — “ and these rings to fasten it with. Is it black ?” 

“No, dark green. I am making it for my brother John.” 

“ A Christmas present !” exclaimed Ellen. 

“I am afraid not; he will hardly be here by that time. It may 
do for New Year.” 

“ How pleasant it must he to make Christmas and New Year 
presents!” said Ellen, after she had watched Alice’s busy fingers 
for a few minutes. “ I wish I could make something for some- 
body. Oh, I wonder if I couldn’t make something for Mr. Van 
Brunt! Oh, I should like to very much.” 

Alice smiled at Ellen’s very wide-open eyes. 

“ What could you make for him ?” 

“I don’t know — that’s the thing. He keeps his money in his 
pocket, — and besides, I don’t know how to make purses.” 

“ There are other things besides purses. How would a watch- 
guard do ? Hoes he wear a watch ?’ ’ 

“ I don’t know whether he does or not ; he doesn’t every day, 
I am sure, but I don’t know about Sundays.” 

“ Then we won’t venture upon that. You might knit him a 
nightcap.” 

“ A nightcap ! — you’re joking, Alice, aren’t you? I don’t think 
a nightcap would be pretty for a Christmas present, do you?” 

“Well, what shall we do, Ellen?” said Alice laughing. “I 


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271 


made a pocket-pincushion for papa once when I was a little girl, 
but I fancy Mr. Van Brunt would not know exactly what use to 
make of such a convenience. I don’t think you could fail to 
please him though, with any thing you should hit upon.” 

“I have got a dollar,” said Ellen, “to buy stuff’ with; it came 
in my letter last night. If I only knew what !” 

Down she went on the rug again, and Alice worked in silence, 
while Ellen’s thoughts ran over every possible and impossible 
article of Mr. Van Brunt’s dress. 

“I have some nice pieces of fine linen,” said Alice; “ suppose 
I cut out a collar for him, and you can make it and stitch it, and 
then Margery will starch and iron it for you, all ready to give to 
him. How will that do? Can you stitch well enough ?” 

“Oh, yes, I guess I can,” said Ellen. “Oh, thank you, dear 
| Alice ! you are the best help that ever was. Will he like that, do 
| you think?” 

“ I am sure he will — very much.” 

“ Then that will do nicely,” said Ellen, much relieved. “ And 
I now what do you think about Nancy’s Bible ?” 

“Nothing could be better, only that I am afraid Nancy would 
I either sell it for something else, or let it go to destruction very 
quickly. I never heard of her spending five minutes over a book, 
and the Bible, I am afraid, last of all.” 

“ But I think,” said Ellen slowly, “ I think she would not spoil it 
I or sell it either, if I gave it to her.” 

And she told Alice about Nancy’s asking for the kiss last night. 

“ That’s the most hopeful thing I have heard about Nancy for 
a long time,” said Alice. “We will get her the Bible by all means, 
my dear, — a nice one, — and I hope you will be able to persuade 
her to read it.” 

She rose as she spoke and went to the glass door. Ellen followed 
her, and they looked out into the night. It was very dark. She 
opened the door a moment, but the wind drove the snow into their 
faces, and they were glad to shut it again. 

“It’s almost as bad as the night we were out, isn’t it?” said 
Ellen. 

“Not such a heavy fall of snow I think, but it is very windy 
and cold. Papa will be late getting home.” 

“ I am sorry you are worried, dear Alice.” 

“ I am not much worried, love. I have often known papa out 
late before, but this is rather a hard night for a long walk. Come, 
we’ll try to make a good use of the time while we are waiting. 
Suppose you read to me while I work.” 

She took down a volume of Cowper and found his account of the 
three pet hares. Ellen read it, and then several of his smaller 
pieces of poetry. Then followed a long talk about hares and other 


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animals ; about Cowper and his friends and his way of life. Time 
passed swiftly away ; it was getting late. 

“ How weary papa will be,” said Alice, “ he has had nothing to 
eat since dinner. I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Ellen,” she exclaimed 
as she threw her work down, “ we’ll make some chocolate for him 
— that’ll be the very thing. Ellen, dear, run into the kitchen and 
ask Margery to bring me the little chocolate pot and a pitcher of 
night’s milk.” 

Margery brought them. The pot was set on the coals, and Alice 
had cut up the chocolate that it might melt the quicker. Ellen 
watched it with great interest, till it was melted, and the boiling 
water stirred in, and the whole was simmering quietly on the coals. 

“ Is it done now?” 

u No, it must boil a little while, and then the milk must be put 
in, and when that has boiled, the eggs — and then it will be done.” 

With Margery and the chocolate pot the cat had walked in. 
Ellen immediately endeavoured to improve his acquaintance ; that 
was not so easy. The Captain chose the corner of the rug furthest 
from her, in spite of all her calling and coaxing, paying her no 
more attention than if he had not heard her. Ellen crossed over 
to him and began most tenderly and respectfully to stroke his head 
and back, touching his soft fur with great care. Parry presently 
lifted up his head uneasily, as much as to say, “I wonder how 
long this is going to last,” — and finding there was every prospect 
of its lasting some time, he fairly got up and walked over to the 
other end of the rug. Ellen followed him and tried again, with 
exactly the same effect. 

“ Well cat ! you aren’t very kind,” said she at length ; — “ Alice, 
he won’t let me have any thing to do with him !” 

“ I am sorry, my dear, he is so unsociable ; he is a cat of very 
bad taste — that is all I can say.” 

“ But I never saw such a cat ! he won’t let me touch him ever 
so softly ; he lifts up his head and looks as cross ! — and then walks 
off.” 

“ He don’t know you yet, and truth is, Parry has no fancy for 
extending the circle of his acquaintance. Oh, kitty, kitty!” said 
Alice, fondly stroking his head, “why don’t you behave better?” 

Parry lifted his head, and opened and shut his eyes, with an 
expression of great satisfaction very different from that he had 
bestowed on Ellen. Ellen gave him up for the present as a hope- 
less case, and turned her attention to the chocolate, which had now 
received the milk and must be watched lest it should run over, 
which Alice said it would very easily do when once it began to boil 
again. Meanwhile Ellen wanted to know what chocolate was made 
of — where it came from — where it was made best, — burning her 
little face in the fire all the time lest the pot should boil over while 


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273 


she was not looking. At last the chocolate began to gather a rich 
froth, and Ellen called out, 

“ Oh, Alice ! look here quick ! here’s the shape of the spoon on 
the top of the chocolate ! do look at it.” 

An iron spoon was in the pot, and its shape was distinctly raised 
on the smooth frothy surface. As they were both bending forward 



to watch it, Alice waiting to take the pot off the moment it began 
to boil, Ellen heard a slight click of the lock of the door, and 
turning her head was a little startled to see a stranger there, stand- 
ing still at the far end of the room. She touched Alice’s arm 
without looking round. But Alice started to her feet with a slight 
scream, and in another minute had thrown her arms round the 


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stranger and was locked in his. Ellen knew what it meant now 
very well. She turned away as if she had nothing to do with what 
was going on there, and lifted the pot of chocolate off the fire with 
infinite difficulty ; but it was going to boil over, and she would 
have broken her back rather than not do it. And then she stood 
with her back to the brother and sister, looking into the fire, as if 
she was determined not to see them till she couldn’t help it. But 
what she was thinking of, Ellen could not have told, then or after- 
wards. It was but a few minutes, though it seemed to her a great 
many, before they drew near the fire. Curiosity began to be strong, 
and she looked round to see if the new-comer was like Alice. No, 
not a bit, — how different ! — darker hair and eyes — not a bit like 
her ; handsome enough, too, to be her brother. And Alice did not 
look like herself ; her usually calm sweet face was quivering and 
sparkling now, — lit up as Ellen had never seen it, — oh, how 
bright ! Poor Ellen herself had never looked duller in her life ; 
and when Alice said gayly, “ This is my brother, Ellen,” — her con- 
fusion of thoughts and feelings resolved themselves into a flood of 
tears ; she sprang and hid her face in Alice’s arms. 

Ellen’s were not the only eyes that were full just then, but of 
course she didn’t know that. 

“ Come, Ellen,” whispered Alice, presently, “ look up ! — what kind 
of a welcome is this? come ! — we have no business with tears just 
now, — won’t you run into the kitchen for me, love,” she added 
more low, “ and ask Margery to bring some bread and butter, and 
any thing else she has that is fit for a traveller?” 

Glad of an escape, Ellen darted away that her wet face might 
not be seen. The brother and sister were busily talking when she 
returned. 

“John,” said Alice, “this is my little sister that I wrote you 
about — Ellen Montgomery. Ellen, this is your brother as well as 
mine, you know.” 

“Stop! stop!” said her brother. “Miss Ellen, this sister of 
mine is giving us away to each other at a great rate, — I should like 
to know first what you say to it. Are you willing to take a strange 
brother upon her recommendation ?” 

Half inclined to laugh, Ellen glanced at the speaker’s face, but 
meeting the grave though somewhat comical look of two very keen 
eyes, she looked down again, and merely answered “ yes.” 

“ Then if I am to be your brother you must give me a brother’s 
right, you know,” said he, drawing her gently to him, and kissing 
her gravely on the lips. 

Probably Ellen thought there was a difference between John 
Humphreys and Mr. Van Brunt, or the young gentlemen of the 
apple-paring ; for though she coloured a good deal, she made no 
objection and showed no displeasure. Alice and she now busied 


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275 


themselves with getting the cups and saucers out of the cupboard, 
and setting the table ; but all that evening, through whatever was 
doing, Ellen s eyes sought the stranger as if by fascination. She 
watched him whenever she could without being noticed. At first 
she was in doubt what to think of him ; she was quite sure from 
that one look into his eyes that he was a person to be feared ; — 
there was no doubt of that; as to the rest she didn’t know. 


“ And what have my two sisters been doing to spend the even- 
ing?” said John Humphreys, one time that Alice was gone into 
the kitchen on some kind errand for him. 

“ Talking, sir,” — said Ellen doubtfully. 

“Talking! this whole evening? Alice must have improved. 
What have you been talking about ?” 

“ Hares — and dogs — and about Mr. Cowper — and some other 
things, ’ ’ 

“Private affairs, eh?” said he, with again the look Ellen had 
seen before. 

“ Yes, sir,” said Ellen, nodding and laughing. 

“ And how came you upon Mr. Cowper ?” 

“Sir?” 

“ How came you to be talking about Mr. Cowper?” 

“ I was reading about his hares, and about John Grilpin ; and 
then Alice told me about Mr. Cowper and his friends.” 

“ Well I don’t know after all that you have had a pleasanter 
evening than I have had,” said her questioner, “ though I have 
been riding hard, with the cold wind in my face, and the driving 
snow doing all it could to discomfit me. I have had this very 
bright fireside before me all the way.” 

He fell into a fit of grave musing which lasted till Alice came 
in. Then suddenly fell a fumbling in his pocket. 

“ Here’s a note for you,” said he, throwing it into her lap. 

“ A note ! — Sophia Marshman ! — where did you get it?” 

“ From her own hand. Passing there to-day I thought I must 
stop a moment to speak to them, and had no notion of doing more ; 
but Mrs. Marshman was very kind, and Miss Sophia in despair, so 
the end of it was I dismounted and went in to await the preparing 
of that billet, while my poor nag was led off to the stables and a 
fresh horse supplied me, — I fancy that tells you on what conditions.” 

“Charming!” said Alice, “to spend Christmas, — I am very 
glad ; I should like to very much — with you dear. If I can only 
get papa — but I think he will ; it will do him a great deal of good. 
To-morrow, she says, we must come ; but I doubt the weather will 
not let us ; we shall see.” 

“ I rode Prince Charlie down. He is a good traveller, and the 
sleighing will be fine if the snow be not too deep. The old sleigh 
is in being yet, I suppose?” 


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“ Oh, yes ! in good order. Ellen what are you looking so grave 
about? you are going too.” 

“I !” said Ellen, a great spot of crimson coming in each cheek. 

“ To be sure ; do you think I am going to leave you behind?” 

“ But ” 

“ But what ?” 

u There won’t be room.” 

“ Room in the sleigh? Then We’ll put John on Prince Charlie, 
and let him ride there, postilion-fashion.” 

“ But — Mr. Humphreys ?” 

“ He always goes on horseback ; he will ride Sharp or old John.” 

In great delight Ellen gave Alice an earnest kiss ; and then they 
all gathered round the table to take their chocolate, or rather to 
see John take his, which his sister would not let him wait for any 
longer. The storm had ceased, and through the broken clouds the 
moon and stars were looking out, so they were no more uneasy for 
Mr. Humphreys and expected him every moment. Still the supper 
was begun and ended without him, and they had drawn round the 
fire again before his welcome step was at last heard. 

There was new joy then ; new embracing, and questioning and 
answering ; the little circle opened to let him in ; and Alice brought 
the corner of the table to his side, and poured him out a cup of 
hot chocolate. But after drinking half of it, and neglecting the 
eatables beside him, he sat with one hand in the other, his arm 
leaning on his knee, with a kind of softened gravity upon his coun- 
tenance. 

“ Is your chocolate right, papa?” said Alice at length. 

“ Very good, my daughter !” 

He finished the cup, but then went back to his old attitude and 
look. Gradually they ceased their conversation, and waited with 
respectful affection and some curiosity for him to speak ; something 
of more than common interest seemed to be in his thoughts. He 
sat looking earnestly in the fire, sometimes with almost a smile on 
his face, and gently striking one hand in the palm of the other. 
And sitting so, without moving or stirring his eyes, he said at last, 
as though the words had been forced from him, “ Thanks be unto 
God for his unspeakable gift !” 

As he added no more, Alice said gently, “ What have you seen 
to-night, papa?” 

He roused himself and pushed the empty cup toward her. 

“ A little more, my daughter : — I have seen the fairest sight, 
almost, a man can see in this world. I have seen a little ransomed 
spirit go home to its rest. Oh, that £ unspeakable gift !’ ” — 

He pressed his lips thoughtfully together while he stirred his 
chocolate ; but having drunk it he pushed the table from him and 
drew up his chair. 


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277 


“You had a long way to go, papa,” observed Alice again. 

“ Yes — a long way there — I don’t know what it was coming 
home ; I never thought of it. How independent the spirit can be 
of externals ! I scarcely felt the storm to-night.” 

“ Nor I,” said his son. 

“ I had a long way to go,” said Mr. Humphreys ; 44 that poor 
woman — that Mrs. Dolan — she lives in the woods behind the 
Cat’s Back, a mile beyond Carra-carra, or more — it seemed a long 
mile to-night ; and a more miserable place I never saw yet. A 
little rickety shanty, the storm was hardly kept out of it, and no 
appearance of comfort or nicety anywhere or in any thing. There 
were several men gathered round the fire, and in a corner, on a 
miserable kind of bed, I saw the sick child. His eye met mine 
the moment I went in, and I thought I had seen him before, but 
couldn’t at first make out where. Do you remember, Alice, a 
little ragged boy, with a remarkably bright pleasant face, who has 
planted himself regularly every Sunday morning for some time 
past in the south aisle of the church, and stood there all service 
time ?” 

Alice said no. 

“ I have noticed him often, and noticed him as paying a most 
fixed and steady attention. I have repeatedly tried to catch him 
on his way out of church, to speak to him, but always failed. I 
asked him to night, when I first went in, if he knew me. 4 I do, 
sir,’ he said. I asked him where he had seen me. He said, 4 In 
the church beyant.’ 4 So,’ said I, 4 you are the little boy I have 
seen there so regularly ; what did you come there for?” 

44 4 To hear yer honor spake the good words.’ 

“ 4 What good words ?’ said I ; * about what?’ 

“ He said, 4 About Him that was slain and washed us from our 
sins in his own blood.’ 

“ 4 And do you think he has washed away yours?’ I said. 

“ He smiled at me very expressively. I suppose it was some- 
what difficult for him to speak ; and to tell the truth so it was for 
me, for I was taken by surprise ; but the people in the hut had 
gathered round, and I wished to hear him say more, for their 
sake as well as my own. I asked him why he thought his sins 
were washed away. He gave me for answer part of the verse, 

4 Suffer little children to come unto me,’ but did not finish it. 

4 Do you think you are very sick, John ?’ I asked. 

44 4 1 am, sir,’ he said, — 4 I’ll not be long here.’ 

44 4 And where do you think you are going then ?’ said I. 

44 He lifted one little thin bony arm from under his coverlid, 
and through all the dirt and pallor of his face the smile of heaven 
I am sure was on it, as he looked and pointed upward and 
answered, 4 Jesus !’ 


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“ I asked him presently, as soon as I could, what he had wished 
to see me for. I don’t know whether he heard me or not ; he lay 
with his eyes half closed, breathing with difficulty. I doubted 
whether he would speak again ; and indeed, for myself, I had 
heard and seen enough to satisfy me entirely ; — for the sake of 
the group around the bed I could have desired something further. 
They kept perfect stillness ; awed, I think, by a profession of 
faith such as they had never heard before. They and I stood 
watching him, and at the end of a few minutes, not more than 
ten or fifteen, he opened his eyes and with sudden life and strength 
rose up half way in bed, exclaiming, ‘ Thanks be to God for his 
unspeakable gift !’ — and then fell back — just dead.” 

The old gentleman’s voice was husky as he finished, for Alice 
and Ellen were both weeping, and John Humphreys had covered 
his face with his hands. 

“I have felt,” said the old gentleman presently, — “ as if I 
could have shouted out his words — his dying words — all the way 
as I came home. My little girl,” said he, drawing Ellen to him, 
“ do you know the meaning of those sweet things of which little 
John Dolan’s mind was so full?” 

Ellen did not speak. 

“ Do you know what it is to be a sinner ? — and what it is to be 
a forgiven child of God ?” 

“ 1 believe I do, sir,” Ellen said. 

He kissed her forehead and blessed her ; and then said, “ Let 
us pray.” 

It was late ; the servants had gone to bed, and they were alone. 
Oh, what a thanksgiving Mr. Humphreys poured forth for that 
“unspeakable gift — that they, every one there, had been made 
to know and rejoice in it; for the poor little boy, rich in faith, who 
had just gone home in the same rejoicing; for their own loved 
one who was there already; and for the hope of joining them 
soon in safety and joy, to sing with them the “ new song” for ever 
and ever. 

There were no dry eyes in the room. And when they arose, 
Mr. Humpreys, after giving his daughter the usual kiss for good 
night, gave one to Ellen too, which he had never done before, and 
then going to his son and laying both hands on his shoulders, 
kissed his cheek also ; then silently took his candle and went. 

They lingered a little while after he was gone, standing round 
the fire as if loth to part, but in grave silence, each busy with his 
own thoughts. Alice’s ended by fixing on her brother, for laying 
her hand and her head carelessly on his shoulder, she said, “ And 
so you have been well all this time, John?” 

He turned his face toward her without speaking, but Ellen as 
well as his sister saw the look of love with which he answered her 


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279 


question, rather of endearment than inquiry ; and from that min- 
ute Ellen’s mind was made up as to the doubt which had troubled 
her. She went to bed quite satisfied that her new brother was a 
decided acquisition. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

The night was winter in his roughest mood, 

The morning sharp and clear . . . 

. . . The vault is blue 

Without a cloud, and white without a speck 

The dazzling splendour of the scene below. 

Cowper. 

Before Ellen’s eyes were open the next morning — almost before 
she awoke — the thought of the Christmas visit, the sleigh-ride, 
John Humphreys, and the weather, all rushed into her mind at 
once, and started her half up in the bed to look out of the window. 
Well frosted the panes of glass were, but at the corners and edges 
unmistakable bright gleams of light came in. 

“Oh, Alice, it’s beautiful!” exclaimed Ellen; £l look how the 
sun is shining! and ’tisn’t very cold. Are we going to-day?” 

“I don’t know yet, Ellie, but we shall know very soon. We’ll 
settle that at breakfast.” 

At breakfast it was settled. They were to go, and set off di- 
rectly. Mr. Humphreys could not go with them, because he had 
promised to bury little John Dolan ; the priest had declared he 
would have nothing to do with it ; and the poor mother had applied 
to Mr. Humphreys, as being the clergyman her child had most 
trusted and loved to hear. It seemed that little John had pur- 
suaded her out of half her prejudices by his affectionate talk and 
blameless behaviour during some time past. Mr. Humphreys, 
therefore, must stay at home that day. He promised, however, to 
follow them the next, and would by no means permit them to wait 
for him. He said the day was fine, and they must improve it; 
and he should be pleased to have them with their friends as long as 
possible. 

So the little travelling bag was stuffed, with more things than it 
seemed possible to get into it. Among the rest Ellen brought her 
little red Bible, which Alice decided should go in John’s pocket; 
— the little carpet-bag could not take it. Ellen was afraid it never 
would be locked. By dint of much pushing and crowding, how- 
ever, locked it was ; and they made themselves ready. Over Ellen’s 
merino dress and coat went an old fur tippet ; a little shawl was 
tied round her neck ; her feet were cased in a pair of warm moc- 


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casins, which belonging to Margery were of course a world too big 
for her, but 11 any thing but cold,” as their owner said. Her nice 
blue hood would protect her head well, and Alice gave her a green 
veil to save her eyes from the glare of the snow. When Ellen 
shuffled out of Alice’s room in this trim, John gave her one of his 
grave looks, and saying she looked like Mother Bunch, begged to 
know how she expected to get to the sleigh ; he said she would 
want a footm . an indeed to wait upon her, to pick up her slippers, if 
she went in that fashion. However he ended by picking her up, 
carried her and set her down safely in the sleigh. Alice followed, 
and in another minute they were off. 

Ellen’s delight was unbounded. Presently they turned round a 
corner and left the house behind out of sight; and they were 
speeding away along a road that was quite new to her. Ellen’s 
heart felt like dancing for joy. Nobody would have thought it, 
she sat so still and quiet between Alice and her brother ; but her 
eyes were very bright as they looked joyously about her, and every 
now and then she could not help smiling to herself. Nothing was 
wanting to the pleasure of that ride. The day was of winter’s 
fairest ; the blue sky as clear as if clouds had never dimmed or 
crossed it. None crossed it now. It was cold, but not bitterly 
cold, nor windy ; the sleigh skimmed along over the smooth frozen 
surface of the snow as if it was no trouble at all to Prince Charlie 
to draw it ; and the sleigh-bells jingled and rang, the very music 
for Ellen’s thoughts to dance to. And then with somebody she 
liked very much on each side of her, and pleasures untold in the 
prospect, no wonder she felt as if her heart could not hold any more. 
The green veil could not be kept on, every thing looked so beauti- 
ful in that morning’s sun. The long wide slopes of untrodden and 
unspotted snow too bright sometimes for the eye to look at ; the 
shadows that here and there lay upon it, of woodland and scattered 
trees ; the very brown fences, and the bare arms and branches of 
the leafless trees showing sharp against the white ground and clear 
bright heaven ; — all seemed lovely in her eyes. For 

“ It is content of heart 
Gives nature power to please/' 

She could see nothing that was not pleasant. And besides they 
were in a nice little red sleigh, with a warm buffalo robe, and Prince 
Charlie was a fine spirited grey that scarcely ever needed to be 
touched with the whip ; at a word of encouragement from his 
driver he would toss his head and set forward with new life, making 
all the bells jingle again. To be sure she would have been just as 
happy if they had had the poorest of vehicles on runners, with old 
John instead ; but still it was pleasanter so. 

Their road at first was through a fine undulating country like 


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281 


that between the Nose and Thirlwall ; farmhouses and patches of 
woodland scattered here and there. It would seem that the minds 
of all the party were full of the same thoughts, for after a very 
long silence Alice’s first word, almost sigh, was, 

“ This is a beautiful world, John !” 

“ Beautiful ! — wherever you can escape from the signs of man’s 
presence and influence.” 

“Isn’t that almost too strong?” said Alice. 

He shook his head, smiling somewhat sadly, and touched Prince 
Charlie, who was indulging himself in a walk. 

“ But there are bright exceptions,” said Alice. 

“ 1 believe it ; — never so much as when I come home.” 

“ Are there none around you, then, in whom you can have con- 
fidence and sympathy?” 

He shook his head again. “ Not enough, Alice. I long for you 
every day of my life.” 

Alice turned her head quick away. 

“It must be so, my dear sister,” he said presently; “we can 
never expect to find it otherwise. There are, as you say, bright 
exceptions, — many of them ; but in almost all I find some sad 
want. We must wait till we join the spirits of the just made per- 
fect, before we see society that will be all we wish for.” 

“What is Ellen thinking of all this while?” said Alice pres- 
ently, bending down to see her face. “ As grave as a judge ! — 
what are you musing about?” 

“ I was thinking,” said Ellen, “ how men could help the world’s 
being beautiful.” 

“ Don’t trouble your little head with that question,” said John 
smiling; — “long may it be before you are able to answer it. 
Look at those snow-birds !” 

By degrees the day wore on. About one o’clock they stopped 
at a farm-house to let the horse rest, and to stretch their own 
limbs, which Ellen for her part was very glad to do. The people 
of the house received them with great hospitality and offered them 
pumpkin pies and sweet cider. Alice had brought a basket of 
sandwiches, and Prince Charlie was furnished with a bag of corn 
Thomas had stowed away in the sleigh for him ; so they were all 
well refreshed and rested and warmed before they set off again. 

From home to Ventnor, Mr. Marshman’s place, was more than 
thirty miles, and the longest, because the most difficult, part of 
the way was still before them. Ellen, however, soon became 
sleepy, from riding in the keen air ; she was content now to have 
the green veil over her face, and sitting down, in the bottom of the 
sleigh, her head leaning against Alice, and covered well with the 
buffalo robe, she slept in happy unconsciousness of hill and dale, 
wind and sun, and all the remaining hours of the way. 

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It was drawing toward four o’clock when Alice with some dif- 
ficulty roused her to see the approach to the house and get wide 
awake before they should reach it. They turned from the road 
and entered by a gateway into some pleasure-grounds, through 
which a short drive brought them to the house. These grounds 
were fine, but the wide lawns were a smooth spread of snow now ; 
the great skeletons of oaks and elms were bare and wintry ; and 
patches of shrubbery offered little hut tufts and bunches of brown 
twigs and stems. It might have looked dreary, but that some 



well-grown evergreens were clustered round the house, and others : 
scattered here and there relieved the eye ; — a few holly bushes, ^ 
singly and in groups, proudly displayed their bright dark leaves f 
and red berries ; — and one unrivalled hemlock on the west threw 
its graceful shadow quite across the lawn, on which, as on itself, 
the white chimney tops, and the naked branches of oaks and elms, 
was the faint smile of the afternoon sun. 

A servant came to take the horse, and Ellen, being first rid of 
her moccasins, went with John and Alice up the broad flight of 
steps and into the house. They entered a large handsome square 


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283 


hall with a blue and white stone floor, at one side of which the 
staircase went winding up. Here they were met by a young lady, 
very lively and pleasant-faced, who threw her arms round Alice 
and kissed her a great many times, seeming very glad indeed to 
see her. She welcomed Ellen too with such warmth that she 
began to feel almost as if she had been sent for and expected ; 
told Mr. J ohn he had behaved admirably ; and then led them into 
a large room where was a group of ladies and gentlemen. 

The welcome they got here was less lively but quite as kind. 
Mr. and Mrs. Marshman were fine handsome old people, of stately 
presence, and most dignified as well as kind in their deportment. 
Ellen saw that Alice was at home here, as if she had been a 
daughter of the family. Mrs. Marshman also stooped down and 
kissed herself, telling her she was very glad she had come, and 
that there were a number of young people there who would be 
much pleased to have her help them keep Christmas. Ellen could 
not make out yet who any of the rest of the company were. 
John and Alice seemed to know them all, and there was a buzz of 
pleasant voices and a great bustle of shaking hands. 

The children had all gone out to walk, and as they had had 
their dinner a great while ago it was decided that Ellen should 
take hers that day with the elder part of the family. While they 
were waiting to be called to dinner and every body else was talking 
and laughing, old Mr. Marshman took notice of little Ellen, and 
drawing her from Alice’s side to his own, began a long conversa- 
tion. He asked her a great many questions, some of them such 
funny ones that she could not help laughing, but she answered 
them all, and now and then so that she made him laugh too. By the 
time the butler came to say dinner was ready she had almost for- 
gotten she was a stranger. Mr. Marshman himself led her to the 
dining-room, begging the elder ladies would excuse him, but he 
felt bound to give his attention to the greatest stranger in the 
company. He placed her on his right hand and took the greatest 
care of her all dinner-time ; once sending her plate the whole 
length of the table for some particular little thing he thought she 
would like. * On the other side of Ellen sat Mrs. Chauncey, one of 
Mr. Marshman’ s daughters; a lady with a sweet, gentle, quiet 
face and manner that made Ellen like to sit by her. Another 
daughter, Mrs. Gillespie, had more of her mother’s stately bear- 
ing ; the third, Miss Sophia, who met them first in the hall, was 
very unlike both the others, but lively and agreeable and good- 
humoured. 

Dinner gave place to the dessert, and that in its turn was removed 
with the cloth. Ellen was engaged in munching almonds and 
raisins, admiring the brightness of the mahogany, and the richly 
cut and coloured glass, and silver decanter stands, which were 


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reflected in it, when a door at the further end of the room half 
opened, a little figure came partly in, and holding the door in her 
hand stood looking doubtfully along the table, as if seeking for 
some one. 

“ What is the matter, Ellen ?” said Mrs. Chauncey. 

“ Mrs. Bland told me, — mamma, — ” she began, her eye not 
ceasing its uneasy quest, but then breaking off and springing to 
Alice’s side she threw her arms round her neck, and gave her 
certainly the warmest of all the warm welcomes she had had that 
day. 

“ Hallo !” cried Mr. Marshman rapping on the table ; “ that’s too 
much for any one’s share. Come here, you baggage, and give me 
just such another.” 

The little girl came near accordingly and hugged and kissed him 
with a very good will, remarking, however, “ Ah, but I’ve seen you 
before to-day, grandpapa !” 

“Well, here’s somebody you’ve not seen before,” said he good- 
humouredly, pulling her round to Ellen, — “here’s a new friend 
for you, — a young lady from the great city, so you must brush up 
your country manners — Miss Ellen Montgomery, come from — 
pshaw ! what .is it? — come from ” 

“ London, grandpapa ?” said the little girl, as with a mixture of 
simplicity and kindness she took Ellen’s hand and kissed her on the 
cheek. 

“From Carra-carra, sir,” said Ellen smiling. 

“ Go along with you,” said he, laughing and pinching her cheek. 
“ Take her away, Ellen, take her away, and mind you take good 
care of her. Tell Mrs. Bland she is one of grandpapa’s guests.” 

The two children had not however reached the door when Ellen 
Chauncey exclaimed, “ Wait, oh ! wait a minute ! I must speak to 
aunt Sophia about the bag.” And flying to her side there followed 
an earnest whispering, and then a nod and smile from aunt Sophia ; 
and satisfied, Ellen returned to her companion and led her out of 
the dining-room. 

“ We have both got the same name,” said she as they went along 
a wide corridor ; “ how shall we know which is which ?’ ’ 

“ Why,” said Ellen laughing, “ when you say Ellen I shall know 
you mean me, and when I say it you will know I mean you. I 
shouldn’t be calling myself, you know.” 

“ Yes, but when somebody else calls Ellen, we shall both have to 
run. Do you run when you are called?” 

“Sometimes,” said Ellen laughing. 

“ Ah, but I do always ; mamma always makes me. I thought 
perhaps you were like Marianne Gillespie — she waits often as much 
as half a minute before she stirs when any body calls her. Did 
you come with Miss Alice ?” 


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285 


“Yes.” 

“ Do you love her?” 

“ Very much ! — oh, very much !” 

Little Ellen looked at her companion’s rising colour with a glance 
of mixed curiosity and pleasure in which lay a strong promise of 
growing love. 

“So do I,” she answered gayly ; “lam very glad she is come, 
and I am very glad you are come, too.” 

The little speaker pushed open a door and led Ellen into the 
presence of a group of young people rather older than them- 
selves. 

“ Marianne,” said she to one of them, a handsome girl of four- 
teen, “ this is Miss Ellen Montgomery — she came with Alice, and 
she is come to keep Christmas with us — aren’t you glad ? There’ll 
be quite a parcel of us when what’s-her-name comes — won’t there ?” 

Marianne shook hands with Ellen. 

“She is one of grandpapa’s guests, I can tell you,” said little 
Ellen Chauncey; “and he says we must brush up our country 
manners — she’s come from the great city.” 

“Do you think we are a set of ignoramuses, Miss Ellen?” 
inquired a well-grown boy of fifteen, who looked enough like 
Marianne Gillespie to prove him her brother. 

“ I don’t know what that is,” said Ellen. 

“ Well, do they do things better in the great city than we do 
here ?” 

“ I don’t know how you do them here,” said Ellen. 

“Don’t you? — Come! Stand out of my way, right and left, 
all of you, will you, and give me a chance? Now then !” 

Conscious that he was amusing most of the party, he placed 
himself gravely at a little distance from Ellen, and marching 
solemnly up to her bowed down to her knees — then slowly raising 
his head stepped back. 

“ Miss Ellen Montgomery, I am rejoiced to have the pleasure of 
seeing you at Yentnor. — Isn’t that polite, now? Is that like what 
you have been accustomed to, Miss Montgomery?” 

“No, sir — thank you,” said Ellen, who laughed in spite of her- 
self. The mirth of the others redoubled. 

“ May I request to be informed then,” continued Gillespie, 
“ what is the fashion of making bows in the great city ?” 

“I don’t know,” said Ellen; “I never saw a boy make a bow 
before.” 

“ Humph ! — I guess country manners will do for you,” said 
William, turning on his heel. 

“ You’re giving her a pretty specimen of ’em, Bill,” said another 
boy. 

“For shame, William!” cried little Ellen Chauncey; — “didn’t 


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I tell you she was one of grandpapa’s guests? Come here, Ellen, 
I’ll take you somewhere else.” 

She seized Ellen’s hand and pulled her toward the door, but 
suddenly stopped again. 

“ Oh, I forgot to tell you!” she said, — “I asked aunt Sophia 
about the hag of moroccos, and she said she would have ’em 
early to-morrow morning, and then we can divide ’em right 
away.” 

“We mustn’t divide ’em till Maggie comes,” said Marianne. 

“ Oh, no — not till Maggie comes,” said little Ellen; and then 
ran off again. 

“ I am so glad you are come,” said she ; — “ the others are all so 
much older, and they have all so much to do together — and now 
you can help me think what I will make for mamma. Hush ! 
don’t say a word about it !” 

They entered the large drawing-room, where old and young were 
gathered for tea. The children, who had dined early, sat down to 
a well-spread table, at which Miss Sophia presided ; the elder per- 
sons were standing or sitting in different parts of the ro'om. Ellen, 
not being hungry, had leisure to look about her, and her eye soon 
wandered from the tea-table in search of her old friends. Alice 
was sitting by Mrs. Marshman, talking with two other ladies ; but 
Ellen smiled presently as she caught her eye from the far end of 
the room, and got a little nod of recognition. John came up just 
then to set down his coffee-cup, and asked her what she was 
smiling at. 

“That’s city manners,” said William Gillespie, “ to laugh at 
what’s going on.” 

“I have no doubt we shall all follow the example,” said John 
Humphreys gravely, “ if the young gentleman will try to give us 
a smile.” 

The young gentleman had just accommodated himself with an 
outrageously large mouthful of bread and sweetmeats, and if ever 
so well-disposed, compliance with the request was impossible. 
None of the rest, however, not even his sister, could keep their 
countenances, for the eye of the speaker had pointed and sharp- 
ened his words; and William, very red in the face, was understood 
to mumble, as soon as mumbling was possible, that “ he wouldn’t 
laugh unless he had a mind to,” and a threat to “ do something” 
to his tormentor. 

“ Only not eat me,” said John, with a shade of expression in his 
look and tone which overcame the whole party, himself and poor 
William alone retaining entire gravity. 

“What’s all this — what’s all this? What’s all this laughing 
about?” said old Mr. Marshman, coming up. 

“This young gentleman, sir,” said John, “has been endeav- 


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• ouring — with a mouthful of arguments — to prove to us the in- 
feriority of city manners to those learned in the country.” 

“Will?” said the old gentleman, glancing doubtfully at Wil- 
liam’s discomfited face; then added sternly, “ I don’t care where 
your manners were learnt, sir, but I advise you to be very particu- 
lar as to the sort you bring with you here. Now, Sophia, let us 
have some music.” 

He set the children a dancing, and as Ellen did not know how, he 
kept her by him, and kept her very much amused too, in his own 
i way ; then he would have her join in the dancing and bade Ellen 
Chauncey give her lessons. There was a little backwardness at 
first, and then Ellen was jumping away with the rest, and thinking 
it perfectly delightful, as Miss Sophia’s piano rattled out merry jigs 
I and tunes, and little feet flew over the floor as light as the hearts 
they belonged to. At eight o’clock the young ones were dismissed, 
and bade good-night to their elders ; and pleased with the kind kiss 
Mrs. Marshman had given her as well as her little granddaughter, 

! Ellen went off to bed very happy. 

The room to which her companion led her was the very picture 
of comfort. It was not too large, furnished with plain old-fash- 
i ioned furniture, and lighted and warmed by a cheerful wood-fire. 

| The very old brass-headed andirons that stretched themselves out 
upon the hearth with such a look of being at home, seemed to say, 
“You have come to the right place for comfort.” A little dark 
mahogany book-case in one place — an odd toilet-table of the same 
I stuff in another ; and opposite the fire an old-fashioned high-post 
bedstead with its handsome Marseilles quilt and ample pillows 
looked very tempting. Between this and the far side of the room, 
in the corner, another bed was spread on the floor. 

“This is aunt Sophia’s room,” said little Ellen Chauncey; — 
“ this is where you are to sleep.” 

“ And where will Alice be?” said the other Ellen. 

“ Oh, she’ll sleep here, in this bed, with aunt Sophia ; that is 
because the house is so full, you know ; — and here is your bed, 
here on the floor. Oh, delicious ! I wish I was going to sleep 
here. Don’t you love to sleep on the floor? I do. I think it’s 
fun.” 

Anybody might have thought it fun to sleep on that bed, for 
instead of a bedstead it was luxuriously piled on mattresses. The 
two children sat down together on the foot of it. 

“ This is aunt Sophia’s room,” continued little Ellen, “ and next 
to it, out of that door, is our dressing-room, and next to that is 
where mamma and I sleep. Do you undress and dress yourself?” 

“To be sure I do,” said Ellen, — “always.” 

“ So do I ; but Marianne Gillespie won’t even put on her shoes 
and stockings for herself.” 


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11 Who does it, then?” said Ellen. 

“ Why, Lester — aunt Matilda’s maid. Mamma sent away her 
maid when we came here, and she says if she had fifty she would 
like me to do every thing I can for myself. I shouldn’t think it 
was pleasant to have any one put on one’s shoes and stockings for 
you, should you?” 

“ No, indeed,” said Ellen. “ Then you live here all the time?” 

“ Oh, yes — ever since papa didn’t come back from that long voy- 
age — we live here since then.” 

“ Is he coming back soon ?” 

“ No,” said little Ellen gravely — “ he never came back — he never 
will come back any more.” 

Ellen was sorry she had asked, and both children were silent for 
a minute. 

“ I’ll tell you what !” said little Ellen, jumping up, — “mamma 
said we mustn’t sit up too long talking, so I’ll run and get my 
things and bring ’em here, and we can undress together; won’t 
that be a nice way?” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

He that loses any thing, and gets wisdom by it, is a gainer by the loss, 

L’Estrange. 

Left alone in the strange room with the flickering fire, how 
quickly Ellen’s thoughts left Ventnor and flew over the sea. They 
often travelled that road it is true, but now perhaps the very home 
look of every thing, where yet she was not at home, might have 
sent them. There was a bitter twinge or two, and for a minute 
Ellen’s head drooped. “ To-morrow will be Christmas eve — last 
Christmas eve — oh, mamma !” 

Little Ellen Chauncey soon came back, and sitting down beside 
her on the foot of the bed began the business of undressing. 

“Don’t you love Christmas time?” said she; “I think it’s the 
pleasantest in all the year ; we always have a houseful of people, 
and such fine times. But then in summer I think that's the pleas- 
antest. I s’ pose they’re all pleasant. Do you hang up your stock- 
ing?” 

“ No,” said Ellen. 

“ Don’t you ! why I always did ever since I can remember. I 
used to think, when I was a little girl you know,” said she laugh- 
ing, — “ I used to think that Santa Claus came down the chimney, 
and I used to hang up my stocking as near the fireplace as I could ; 


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289 


but I know better than that now ; I don’t care where I hang it. 
You know who Santa Claus is, don’t you?” 

“ He’s nobody,” said Ellen. 

“ Oh, yes he is— he’s a great many people — he’s whoever gives 
you any thing. My Santa Claus is mamma, and grandpapa, and 
grandmamma, and aunt Sophia, and aunt Matilda ; and I thought 
I should have had uncle George too this Christmas, but he couldn’t 
come. Uncle Howard never gives me any thing. lam sorry uncle 
George couldn’t come ; I like him the best of all my uncles.” 

“I never had any body but mamma to give me presents,” said 
Ellen, “and she never gave me much more at Christmas than at 
other times.” 

“ I used to have presents from mamma and grandpapa too, both 
Christmas and New Year, but now I have grown so old mamma 
only gives me something Christmas and grandpapa only New Year. 
It would be too much, you know, for me to have both when my 
presents are so big. I don’t believe a stocking will hold ’em much 
longer. But oh! we’ve got such a fine plan in our heads,” said 
little Ellen, lowering her voice and speaking with open eyes and 
great energy, — “ we are going to make presents this year ! — we 
children — won’t it be fine? — we are going to make what we like 
for any body we choose, and let nobody know any thing about it; 
and then New Year’s morning, you know, when the things are all 
under the napkins we will give ours to somebody to put where they 
belong, and nobody will know any thing about them till they see 
them there. Won’t it be fine? I’m so glad you are here, for I 
want you to tell me what I shall make.” 

“ Who is it for?” said Ellen. 

“ Oh, mamma ; you know I can’t make for every body, so I think 
I had rather it should be for mamma. I thought of making her a 
needlebook with white backs, and getting Gilbert Gillespie to paint 
them — he can paint beautifully, — and having her name and some- 
thing else written very nicely inside — how do you think that would 
do?” 

“I should think it would do very nicely,” said Ellen, — “very 
nicely indeed.” 

“ I wish uncle George was at home though to write it for me, — 
he writes so beautifully ; I can’t do it well enough.” 

“I am afraid I can’t either,” said Ellen. “Perhaps somebody 
else can.” 

“ I don’t know who. Aunt Sophia scribbles and scratches, and 
besides I don’t want her to know any thing about it. But there’s 
another thing I don’t know how to fix, and that’s the edges of the 
leaves — the leaves for the needles — they must be fixed — somehow.” 

“I can show you how to do that,” said Ellen brightening; 
“ mamma had a needlebook that was given to her that had the 
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edges beautifully fixed ; and I wanted to know how it was done, 
and she showed me. I’ll show you that. It takes a good while, 
but that’s no matter.” 

“ Oh, thank you ; how nice that is. Oh, no, that’s no matter. And 
then it will do very well, won’t it? Now if I can only catch Gil- 
bert in a good humour — he isn’t my cousin — he’s Marianne’s 
cousin — that big boy you saw down stairs — he’s so big he won’t 
have any thing to say to me sometimes, but I guess I’ll get him 
to do this. Don’t you want to make something for somebody ?” 

Ellen had had one or two feverish thoughts on this subject 
since the beginning of the conversation ; but she only said, — 

“It’s no matter — you know I haven’t got any thing here; and 
besides I shall not be here till New Year.” 

“Not here till New Year! yes you shall,” said little Ellen, 
throwing herself upon her neck; “ indeed you aren’t going away 
before that. I know you aren’t — I heard grandmamma and aunt 
Sophia talking about it. Say you will stay here till New Year — 
do !” 

“I should like to very much indeed,” said Ellen, “if Alice 
does.” 

In the midst of half a dozen kisses with which her little com- 
panion rewarded this speech, somebody close by said pleasantly, — 

“ What time of night do you suppose it is?” 

The girls started ; — there was Mrs. Chauncey. 

“Oh, mamma,” exclaimed her little daughter, springing to her 
feet, “ I hope you haven’t heard what we have been talking 
about ?’ ’ 

“Not a word,” said Mrs. Chauncey, smiling, “but as to-morrow 
will be long enough to talk in, hadn’t you better go to bed now?” 

Her daughter obeyed her immediately, after one more hug to 
Ellen and telling her she was so glad she had come. Mrs. Chaun- 
cey stayed to see Ellen in bed and press one kind motherly kiss 
upon her face, so tenderly that Ellen’s eyes were moistened as she 
withdrew. But in her dreams that night the rosy sweet face, blue 
eyes, and little plump figure of Ellen Chauncey played the greatest 
part. 

She slept till Alice was obliged to waken her the next morning ; 
and then got up with her head in a charming confusion of pleasures 
past and pleasures to come, — things known and unknown to be 
made for every body’s New Year presents, — linen collars and 
painted needlebooks ; and no sooner was breakfast over than she 
was showing and explaining to Ellen Chauncey a particularly 
splendid and mysterious way of embroidering the edges of needle- 
book leaves. Deep in this they were still an hour afterwards, and 
in the comparative merits of purple and rose-colour, when a little 
hubbub arose at the other end of the room' on the arrival of a new- 


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comer. Ellen Chauncey looked up from her work, then dropped 
it, exclaiming, “There she is! — now for the bag!” — and pulled 
Ellen along with her toward the party. A young lady was in the 
midst of it, talking so fast that she had not time to take off her 
cloak and bonnet. As her eye met Ellen’s however she came to a 
sudden pause. It was Margaret Dunscombe. Ellen’s face certainly 
showed no pleasure; Margaret’s darkened with a very disagreeable 
surprise. 

“ My goodness ! — Ellen Montgomery ! — how on earth did you 
get here f ’ 

“ Do you know her ?” asked one of the girls, as the two Ellens 
went off after “aunt Sophia.” 

“Do I know her? Yes — just enough, — exactly. How did she 
get here ?” 

“ Miss Humphreys brought her.” 

“ Who’s Miss Humphreys?” 

“Hush!” said Marianne, lowering her tone, — “that’s her 
brother in the window.” 

“ Whose brother? — hers or Miss Humphreys’ ?” 

“Miss Humphreys’. Did you never jsee her? she is here, or 
has been here, a great deal of the time. Grandma calls her her 
fourth daughter ; and she is just as much at home as if she was ; 
and she brought her here.” 

“And she’s at home too, I suppose. Well, it’s no business of 
mine.” 

“ What do you know of her?” 

“ Oh, enough — that’s just it — don’t want to know any more.” 

“ Well, you needn’t ; but what’s the matter with her ?” 

“Oh, I don’t know — I’ll tell you some other time — she’s a con- 
ceited little piece. We had the care of her coming up the river, 
that’s how I come to know about her; ’ma said it was the last 
child she would be bothered with in that way.” 

Presently the two girls came back, bring word to clear the table, 
for aunt Sophia was coming with the moroccos. As soon as she 
came Ellen Chauncey sprang to her neck and whispered an earnest 
question. “ Certainly 1” aunt Sophia said, as she poured out the 
contents of the bag ; and her little niece delightedly told Ellen she 
was to have her share as well as the rest. 

The table was now strewn with pieces of morocco of all sizes 
and colours, which were hastily turned over and examined with 
eager hands and sparkling eyes. Some were mere scraps, to be 
sure ; but others showed a breadth and length of beauty which was 
declared to be “first-rate,” and “fine;” and one beautiful large 
piece of blue morocco in particular was made up in imagination by 
two or three of the party in as many different ways. Marianne 
wanted it for a book-cover ; Margaret declared she could make a 


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make a very pretty needle-box, such a one as she had seen in the 
possession of one of the girls, and longed to make for Alice. 

“ Well, what’s to be done now?” said Miss Sophia, — “ or am I 
not to know ?” 

“ Oh, you’re not to know — you’re not to know, aunt Sophy,” 
cried the girls; — “you mustn’t ask.” 

“ I’ll tell you what they are going to do with ’em,” said George 
Walsh coming up to her with a mischievous face, and adding in a 
loud whisper, shielding his mouth with his hand, — “ they’re going 
to make pr ” 

He was laid hold of forcibly by the whole party screaming and 
laughing, and stopped short from finishing his speech. 

“Wellthen I’ll take my departure,” said Miss Sophia; — “but 
how will you manage to divide all these scraps?” 

“ Suppose we were to put them in the bag again, and you hold 
the bag, and we were to draw them out without looking,” said 
Ellen Chauncey, — “ as we used to do with the sugar-plums.” 

As no better plan was thought of this was agreed upon ; and little 
Ellen shutting up her eyes very tight stuck in her hand and pulled 
out a little bit of green morocco about the size of a dollar. Ellen 
Montgomery came next ; then Margaret, then Marianne, then their 
mutual friend Isabel Hawthorn. Each had to take her turn a great 
many times ; and at the end of the drawing the pieces were found 
to be pretty equally divided among the party, with the exception of 
Ellen, who besides several other good pieces had drawn the famous 
blue. 

“ That will do very nicely,” said little Ellen Chauncey ; — “ I am 
glad you have got that, Ellen. Now, aunt Sophy ! — one thing 
more — you know the silks and ribbons you promised us.” 

“ Bless me ! I haven’t done yet, eh ? Well you shall have them, 
but we are all going out to walk now ; I’ll give them to you this 
afternoon. Come! put these away and get on your bonnets and 
cloaks.” 

A hard measure ! but it was done. After the walk came dinner : 
after dinner aunt Sophia had to be found and waited on, till she 
had fairly sought out and delivered to their hands the wished-for 
bundles of silks and satins. It gave great satisfaction. 

“ But how shall we do about dividing these?” said little Ellen ; 
“ shall we draw lots again ?” 

“ No, Ellen,” said Marianne, “ that, won’t do, because we might 
every one get just the thing we do not want. I want one colour 
or stuff to go with my morocco, and you want another to go with 
yours ; and you might get mine and I might get yours. We had 
best each choose in turn what we like, beginning at Isabel.” 

“ Very well,” said little Ellen, “ I’m agreed.” 

“ Any thing for a quiet life,” said George Walsh. 


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293 


But this business of choosing was found to be very long and 
very difficult, each one was so fearful of not taking the exact piece 
she wanted most. The elder members of the family began to 
gather for dinner, and several came and stood round the table where 
the children were ; little noticed by them, they were so wrapped up 
in silks and satins. Ellen seemed the least interested person at 
table, and had made her selections with the least delay and difficulty ; 
and now as it was not her turn sat very soberly looking on with 
her head resting on her hand. 

“I declare it’s too vexatious!” said Margaret Dunscombe; — 
“here I’ve got this beautiful piece of blue satin, and can’t do any 
thing with it; it just matches that blue morocco — it’s a perfect 
match — I could have made a splendid thing of it, and I have got 
some cord and tassels that would just do — I declare it’s too bad.” 

Ellen’s colour changed. 

“Well, choose, Margaret,” said Marianne. 

“ I don’t know what to choose — that’s the thing. What can one 
do with red and purple morocco and blue satin ? I might as well 
give up. I’ve a great notion to take this piece of yellow satin and 
dress up a Turkish doll to frighten the next young one I meet with.” 

“ I wish you would, Margaret, and give it to me when it’s done,” 
cried little Ellen Chauncey. 

“ ’Tain’t made yet,” said the other dryly. 

Ellen’s colour had changed and changed; her hand twitched 
nervously, and she glanced uneasily from Margaret’s store of finery 
to her own. 

“ Come, choose, Margaret,” said Ellen Chauncey ; — “ I dare say 
Ellen wants the blue morocco as much as you do.” 

“No, I don’t!” said Ellen abruptly, throwing it over the table 
to her ; — “ take it, Margaret, — you may have it.” 

“ What do you mean ?” said the other astounded. 

“ I mean you may have it,” said Ellen, — “ I don’t want it.” 

“Well, I’ll tell you what,” said the other, — “I’ll give you yel- 
low satin for it— or some of my red morocco ?” 

“ No, — I had rather not,” repeated Ellen ; — “ I don’t want it — 
you may have it.” 

“ Very generously done,” remarked Miss Sophia ; “ I hope you’ll 
all take a lesson in the art of being obliging.” 

“ Quite a noble little girl,” said Mrs. Gillespie. 

Ellen crimsoned. “No, ma’am, I am not, indeed,” she said, 
looking at them with eyes that were filling fast, — “ please don’t 
say so — I don’t deserve it.” 

“ I shall say what I think, my dear,” said Mrs. Gillespie smiling, 
“ but I am glad you add the grace of modesty to that of gener- 
osity ; it is the more uncommon of the two.” 
lovely reticule with it ; and Ellen could not help thinking it would 

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“I am not modest! I am not generous! you mustn’t say so,” 
cried Ellen. She struggled ; the blood rushed to the surface, suf- 
fusing every particle of skin that could be seen ; — then left it, as 
with eyes cast down she went on — “I don’t deserve to be praised, 
— it was more Margaret’s than mine. I oughtn’t to have kept it 
at all — for I saw a little bit when I put my hand in. I didn’t 
mean to, but I did !” 

Raising her eyes hastily to Alice’s face, they met those of John, 
who was standing behind her. She had not counted upon him for 
one of her listeners ; she knew Mrs. Gillespie, Mrs. Chauncey, Miss 
Sophia, and Alice had heard her ; but this was the one drop too 
much. Her head sunk ; she covered her face a moment, and then 
made her escape out of the room before even Ellen could follow 
her. 

There was a moment’s silence. Alice seemed to have some diffi- 
culty not to follow Ellen’s example. Margaret pouted; Mrs. 
Chauncey’ s eyes filled with tears, and her little daughter seemed 
divided between doubt and dismay. Her first move however was 
to run off in pursuit of Ellen. Alice went after her. 

“ Here’s a beautiful example of honour and honesty for you !” 
said Margaret Dunscombe. at length. 

“ I think it is,” said John, quietly. 

“ An uncommon instance,” said Mrs. Chauncey. 

“ I am glad every body thinks so,” said Margaret, sullenly ; “ I 
hope I shan’t copy it, that’s all.” 

“ I think you are in no danger,” said John, again. 

“Very well!” said Margaret, who between her desire of speak- 
ing and her desire of concealing her vexation did not know what 
to do with herself ; — “ every body must judge for himself, I sup- 
pose ; I’ve got enough of her, for my part.” 

“Where did you ever see her before?” said Isabel Haw- 
thorn. 

“ Oh, she came up the river with us — mamma had to take care 
of her — she was with us two days.” 

“ And didn’t you like her?” 

“No, I guess I didn’t! she was a perfect plague. All the day 
onboard the steamboat she scarcely came near us; we couldn’t 
pretend to keep sight of her ; mamma had to send her maid out to 
look after her I don’t know how many times. She scraped ac- 
quaintance with some strange man on board and liked his company 
better than ours, for she stayed with him the whole blessed day, 
waking and sleeping; of course mamma didn’t like it at all. She 
didn’t go to a single meal with us ; you know of course that wasn’t 
proper behaviour.” 

“No indeed,” said Isabel. 

“I suppose,” said John, coolly, “she chose the society she 


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295 


thought the pleasantest. Probably Miss Margaret’s politeness was 
more than she had been accustomed to.” 

Margaret coloured, not quite knowing what to make of the 
speaker or his speech. 

“It would take much to make me believe,” said gentle Mrs. 
Chauncey, “ that a child of such refined and delicate feeling as 
that little girl evidently has, could take pleasure in improper 
company.” 

Margaret had a reply at her tongue’s end, but she had also an 
uneasy feeling that there were eyes not far off too keen of sight 
to be baffled ; she kept silence till the group dispersed and she had 
an opportunity of whispering in Marianne’s ear that “ that was the 
very most disagreeable man she had ever seen in her life.” 

“What a singular fancy you have taken to this little pet of 
Alice’s, Mr. John,” said Mrs. Marshman’s youngest daughter. 
“ You quite surprise me.” 

“ Did you think me a misanthrope, Miss Sophia?” 

“ Oh, no, not at all ; but I always had a notion you would not 
be easily pleased in the choice of favourites.” 

“Easily ! When a simple intelligent child of twelve or thirteen 
is a common character, then I will allow that I am easily pleased.” 

“ Twelve or thirteen !” said Miss Sophia ; “ what are you think- 
ing about? Alice says she is only ten or eleven.” 

“In years — perhaps.” 

11 How gravely you take me up !” said the young lady, laughing. 
“ My dear Mr. John, 1 in years perhaps,’ you may call yourself 
twenty, but in every thing else you might much better pass for 
thirty or forty.” 

As they were called to dinner Alice and Ellen Chauncey came 
back ; the former looking a little serious, the latter crying, and 
wishing aloud that all the moroccos had been in the fire. They 
had not been able to find Ellen. Neither was she in the drawing- 
room when they returned to it after dinner ; and a second search 
was made in vain. John went to the library which was separate 
from the other rooms, thinking she might have chosen that for a 
hiding-place. She was not there ; but the pleasant light of the 
room where only the fire was burning, invited a stay. He sat 
down in the deep window, and was musingly looking out into the 
moonlight, when the door softly opened and Ellen came in. She 
stole in noiselessly, so that he did not hear her, and she thought 
the room empty ; till in passing slowly down toward the fire she 
came upon him in the window. Her start first let him know she 
was there ; she would have run, but one of her hands was caught, 
and she could not get it away. 

“Running away from your brother, Elbe !” said he, kindly ; 
“ what is the matter?” 


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Ellen shrunk from meeting his eye and was silent. 

“I know all, Ellie,” said he, still very kindly, — “I have seen 
all ; — why do you shun me?” 

Ellen said nothing ; the big tears began to run down her face 
and frock. 

“You are taking this matter too hardly, dear Ellen,” he said, 
drawing her close to him ; — “ you did wrong, but you have done 
all you could to repair the wrong ; — neither man nor woman can 
do more than that.” 

But though encouraged by his manner, the tears flowed faster 
than ever. 

“ Where have you been ? Alice was looking for you, and little 
Ellen Chauncey was in great trouble. I don’t know what dreadful 
thing she thought you had done with yourself. Come ! — lift up 
your head and let me see you smile again.” 

Ellen lifted her head, but could not her eyes, though she tried 
to smile. 

“I want to talk to you a little about this,” said he. “You 
know you gave me leave to be your brother, — will you let me ask 
you a question or two ?’ ’ 

“Oh, yes — whatever he pl’eased,” Ellen said. 

“Then sit down here,” said he, making room for her on the 
wide window-seat, but still keeping hold of her hand and speaking 
very gently. “ You said you saw when you took the morocco — I 
don’t quite understand — how was it?” 

“Why,” said Ellen, “we were not to look, and we had gone 
three times round and nobody had got that large piece yet, and we 
all wanted it ; and I did not mean to look at all, but I don’t know 
how it was, just before I shut my eyes I happened to see the 
corner of it sticking up, and then I took it.” 

“ With your eyes open ?” 

“No, no, with them shut. And I had scarcely got it when I 
was sorry for it and wished it back.” 

“ You will wonder at me perhaps, Ellie,” said John, “but I am 
not very sorry this has happened. You are no worse than before ; 
— it has only made you see what you are — very, very weak, — quite 
unable to keep yourself right without constant help. Sudden 
temptation was too much for you — so it has many a time been for 
me, and so it has happened to the best men on earth. I suppose 
if you had had a minute’s time to think you would not have done 
as you did ?” 

“ No, indeed !” said Ellen. “ I was sorry a minute after.” 

“ And I dare say the thought of it weighed upon your mind ever 
since ?” 

•• Oh, yes !” said Ellen ; — “ it wasn't out of my head a minute 
the whole day.” 


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297 


c< Then let it make you very humble, dear Ellie, and let it make 
you in future keep close to our dear Saviour, without whose help 
we cannot stand a moment.” 

Ellen sobbed ; and he allowed her to do so for a few minutes, 
then said, 

“ But you have not been thinking much about Him, Ellie.” 

The sobs ceased ; he saw his words had taken hold. 

“Is it right,” he said softly, “that we should be more troubled 
about what people will think of us, than for having displeased or 
dishonoured Him?” 

Ellen now looked up, and in her look was all the answer he 
wished. 

“You understand me, I see,” said he. “Be humbled in the 
dust before him — the more the better ; but whenever we are greatly 
concerned, for our own sakes, about other people’s opinion, we may 
be sure we are thinking too little of God and what will please him.” 

“ I am very sorry,” said poor Ellen, from whose eyes the tears 
began to drop again, — “ I am very wrong — but I couldn’t bear to 
think what Alice would think — and you — and all of them ” 

“ Here’s Alice to speak for herself,” said John. 

As Alice came up with a quick step and knelt down before her, 
Ellen sprang to her neck, and they held each other very fast in- 
deed. John walked up and down the room. Presently he stopped 
before them. 

“ All’s well again,” said Alice, “ and we are going in to tea.” 

He smiled and held out his hand, which Ellen took, but he would 
not leave the library, declaring they had a quarter of an hour still. 
So they sauntered up and down the long room, talking of different 
things, so pleasantly that Ellen near forgot her troubles. Then 
came in Miss Sophia to find them, and then Mr. Marshman, and 
Marianne to call them to tea ; so the going into the drawing-room 
was not half so bad as Ellen thought it would be. 

She behaved very well ; her face was touchingly humble that 
night; and all the evening she kept fast by either Alice or John, 
without budging an inch. And as little Ellen Chauncey and her 
cousin George Walsh chose to be where she was, the young party 
was quite divided ; and not the least merry portion of it was that 
mixed with the older people. Little Ellen was half beside herself 
with spirits ; the secret of which perhaps was the fact, which she 
several times in the course of the evening whispered to Ellen as a 
great piece of news, that “ it was Christmas eve 1” 


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CHAPTER XXIX. 

As bees flee hame wi’ lades o’ treasure, 

The minutes winged their way wi’ pleasure. 

Kings may be blest, but they were glorious, 

O’er all the ills o’ life victorious. 

Burns. 

Christmas morning was dawning grey, but it was still far from 
broad daylight, when Ellen was awakened. She found little Ellen 
Chauncey pulling and pushing at her shoulders, and whispering 
“Ellen! Ellen!” — in a tone that showed a great fear of waking 
somebody up. There she was, in night-gown and nightcap, and 
barefooted too, with a face brimfull of excitement and as wide 
awake as possible. Ellen roused herself in no little surprise and 
asked what the matter was. 

“I am going to look at my stocking,” whispered her visitor, — 
“don’t you want to get up and come with me? it’s just here in 
the other room, — come ! — don’t make any noise.” 

“ But what if you should find nothing in it?” said Ellen laugh- 
ingly, as she bounded out of bed. 

“ Ah, but I shall, I know ; — I always do ; — never fear. Hush ! 
step ever so softly — I don’t want to wake any body.” 

“It’s hardly light enough for you to see,” whispered Ellen, as 
the two little barefooted white figures glided out of the room. 

“Oh, yes it is — that’s all the fun. Hush! — don’t make a bit 
of noise — I know where it hangs — mamma always puts it at the 
back of her big easy chair — come this way — here it is ! Oh, Ellen ! 
there’s two of ’em ! There’s one for you ! there’s one for you.” 

In a tumult of delight one Ellen capered about the floor on the 
tips of her little bare toes, while the other, not less happy, stood 
still for pleasure. The dancer finished by hugging and kissing her 
with all her heart, declaring she was so glad she didn’t know what 
to do. 

“ But how shall we know which is which ?” 

“ Perhaps they are both alike,” said Ellen. 

“ No — at any rate one’s for me, and t’other’s for you. Stop ! here 
are pieces of paper, with our names on I guess — let’s turn the 
chair a little bit to the light — there — yes ! — Ellen — M-o-n, — there, 
that’s yours; my name doesn’t begin with an M ; and this is 
mine !” 

Another caper round the room, and then she brought up in front 
of the chair where Ellen was still standing. 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 299 

“I wonder what’s in ’em,” she said; “ I want to look, and I 
don't want to. Come, you begin.” 

“ But that’s no stocking of mine,” said Ellen, a smile gradually 
breaking upon her sober little face ; “ my leg never was as big as 
that.” 



“ Stuffed, isn’t it ?” said Ellen Chauncey. “ Oh, do make haste, 
and see what is in yours. I want to know so I don’t know what 

to do.” T i 

a y\r e n w m you take out of yours as fast as I take out of 

mine?” 

“ Well !” 


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Oh, mysterious delight, and delightful mystery, of the stuffed 
stocking ! Ellen’s trembling fingers sought the top, and then very 
suddenly left it. 

“I can’t think what it is,” said she laughing, — “it feels so 
funny.” 

“ Oh, never mind ! make haste,” said Ellen Chauncey ; “ it 
won’t hurt you, I guess.” 

“ No, it won’t hurt me,” said Ellen, — “ but ” 

She drew forth a great bunch of white grapes. 

“Splendid! isn’t it?” said Ellen Chauncey. “Now for mine.” 

It was the counterpart of Ellen’s bunch. 

“ So far, so good,” said she. “ Now for the next.” 

The next thing in each stocking was a large horn of sugar-plums. 

“ Well, that’s fine, isn’t it?” said Ellen Chauncey; — “ yours is 
tied with white ribbon and mine with blue ; that’s all the difference. 
Oh, and your paper’s red and mine is purple.” 

“Yes, and the pictures are different,” said Ellen. 

“Well, I had rather they would he different, wouldn t you? I 
think it’s just as pleasant. One’s as big as the other, at any rate. 
Come — what’s next ?” 

Ellen drew out a little bundle, which being opened proved to be 
a nice little pair of dark kid gloves. 

“ Oh, I wonder who gave me this !” she said, — “ it’s just what 
I wanted. How pretty ! Oh, I’m so glad. I guess who it was.” 

“ Oh, look here,” said the other Ellen, who had been diving into 
her stocking, — “ I’ve got a ball — this is just what I wanted too ; 
George told me if I’d get one he’d show me how to play. Isn’t it 
pretty ? Isn’t it funny we should each get just what we wanted ? 
Oh, this is a very nice ball. I’m glad I’ve got it. Why, here is 
another great round thing in my stocking ! — what can it he ? they 
wouldn’t give me two balls,” said she, chuckling. 

“ So there is in mine !” said Ellen. “ Maybe they’re apples?” 

“ They aren’t ! they wouldn’t give us apples ; besides, it is soft. 
Pull it out and see.” 

“ Then they are oranges,” said Ellen laughing. 

“ I never felt such a soft orange,” said little Ellen Chauncey. 
“ Come Ellen ! stop laughing, and let’s see.” 

They were two great scarlet satin pincushions, with E. C. and 
E. M. very neatly stuck in pins. 

“ Well, we shan’t want pins for a good while, shall we?” said 
Ellen. “ Who gave us these?” 

“I know,” said little Ellen Chauncey, — “ Mrs. Bland.” 

“She was very kind to make one for me,” said Ellen. “ Now 
for the next !” 

Her next thing was a little bottle of Cologne water. 

“ I can tell who put that in,” said her friend, — “ aunt Sophia. 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 301 

I know her little bottles of Cologne water. Do you love Cologne 
water? Aunt Sophia’s is delicious.” 

Ellen did like it very much, and was extremely pleased. Ellen 
Chauncey had also a new pair of scissors which gave entire satis- 
faction. 

“Now I wonder what all this toe is stuffed with,” said she, — 
“raisins and almonds, I declare! and yours the same, isn’t it? 
Well, don’t you think we have got enough sweet things? Isn’t 
this a pretty good Christmas ?’ ’ 

“What are you about, you monkeys?” cried the voice of aunt 
Sophia from the dressing-room door. “Alice, Alice! do look at 
them. Come, right back to bed both of you. Crazy pates ! It is 
lucky it is Christmas day — if it was any other in the-year we should 
have you both sick in bed ; as it is I suppose you will go scot 
free.” 

Laughing, and rosy with pleasure, they came back and got into 
bed together ; and for an hour afterwards the two kept up a most 
animated conversation, intermixed with long chuckles and bursts 
of merriment, and whispered communications of immense im- 
portance. The arrangement of the painted needlebook was entirely 
decided upon in this consultation ; also two or three other matters ; 
and the two children seemed to have already lived a day since day- 
break by the time they came down to breakfast. 

After breakfast Ellen applied secretly to Alice to know if she 
could write very beautifully ; she exceedingly wanted something 
done. 

“ I should not like to venture, Ellie, if it must be so superfine ; 
but John can do it for you.” 

“ Can he ? Do you think he would ?” 

“ I am su?e he will if you ask him.” 

“ But I don’t like to ask him,” said Ellen, casting a doubtful 
glance at the window. 

“Nonsense! he’s only reading the newspaper. You won’t dis- 
turb hfm.” 

“ Well, you won’t say any thing about it?” 

“ Certainly not.” 

Ellen accordingly went near and said gently, “ Mr. Humphreys,” 
— but he did not seem to hear her. “ Mr. Humphreys.!” — a little 
louder. 

“ He has not arrived yet,” said John, looking round gravely. 

He spoke so gravely that Ellen could not tell whether he were 
joking or serious. Her face of extreme perplexity was too much 
for his command of countenance. “ Whom do you want to speak 
to?” said he, smiling. 

“ I wanted to speak to you, sir,” said Ellen, “ if you are not too 
busy.” 


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11 Mr. Humphreys is always busy,” said he, shaking his head; 
“ but Mr. John can attend to you at any time, and John will do for 
you whatever you please to ask him.” 

“Then, Mr. John,” said Ellen laughing, “if you please, 1 
wanted to ask you to do something for me very much indeed, if 
you are not too busy ; Alice said I shouldn’t disturb you.” 

“ Not at all ; I’ve been long enough over this stupid newspaper. 
What is it?” 

“I want you, if you will be so good,” said Ellen, “to write a 
little bit for me on something, very beautifully.” 

“ ‘ Very beautifully !’ Well — come to the library ; we will see.” 

“But it is a great secret,” said Ellen; “you won’t tell any 
body?” 

“Tortures shan’t draw it from me — when I know what it is,” 
said he, with one of his comical looks. 

In high glee Ellen ran for the pieces of Bristol board which 
were to form the backs of the needlebook, and brought them to the 
library ; and explained how room was to be left in the middle of 
each for a painting, a rose on one, a* butterfly on the other ; the 
writing to be as elegant as possible, above, beneath, and round- 
about, as the fancy of the writer should choose. 

“ Well, what is to be inscribed on this most original of needle- 
books ?” said John, as he carefully mended his pen. 

“ Stop l” — said Ellen, — “ I’ll tell you in a minute — on this one, 
the front you know, is to go, 11 To my dear mother, many happy 
New Years ;’ — and on this side, ‘ From ' her dear little daughter, 
Ellen Chauncey.’ You know,” she added, “Mrs. Chauncey isn’t 
to know any thing about it till New Year’s Day; nor any body 
else.” 

“ Trust me,” said John. “If I am asked any questions they 
shall find me as obscure as an oracle.” 

“ What is an oracle, sir?” 

“Why,” said John smiling, “this pen won’t do yet — the old 
heathens believed there were certain spots of earth to which some 
of their gods had more favour than to others, and where they 
would permit mortals to come nearer to them and would even deign 
to answer their questions.” 

“ And did they?” said Ellen. 

“ Did they what?” 

“ Did they answer their questions?” 

“ Did who answer their questions ?” 

“ The — oh ! to be sure,” said Ellen, — “ there were no such gods. 
But what made people think they answered them ? and how could 
they ask questions ?” 

“ I suppose it was a contrivance of the priests to increase their 
power and wealth. There was always a temple built near, with 


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priests and priestesses ; the questions were put through them ; and 
they would not ask them except on great occasions, or for people 
of consequence who could pay them well by making splendid gifts 
to the god.” 

“ But I should think the people would have thought the priest 
or priestess had made up the answers themselves.” 

“ Perhaps they did sometimes. But people had not the Bible 
then, and did not know as much as we know. It was not unnatural 
to think the gods would care a little for the poor people that lived 
on the earth. Besides, there was a good deal of management and 
trickery about the answers of the oracle that helped to deceive.” 

“ How was it?” said Ellen; — “ how could they manage? and 
what was the oracle ?” 

“ The oracle was either the answer itself, or the god who was 
supposed to give it, or the place where it was given ; and there 
were different ways of managing. At one place the priest hid him- 
self in the hollow body or among the branches of an oak tree, and 
people thought the tree spoke to them. Sometimes the oracle was 
delivered by a woman who pretended to be put into a kind of fit — 
tearing her hair and beating her breast.” 

“But suppose the oracle made a mistake? — what would the 
people think then?” 

“ The answers were generally contrived so that they would seem 
to come true in any evbnt.” 

“ I don’t see how they could do that,” said Ellen. 

“ Very well — just imagine that I am an oracle, and come to me 
with some question ; — I’ll answer you.” 

“ But you can’t tell what’s going to happen?” 

“ No matter — you ask me truly and I’ll answer you oracularly.” 

“That means, like an oracle, I suppose?” said Ellen. “ Well — 
Mr. John, will Alice be pleased with what I am going to give her 
New Year?” 

“She will be pleased with what she will receive on that day.” 

“Ah, but,” said Ellen laughing, “that isn’t fair; you haven’t 
answered me ; perhaps somebody else will give her something, and 
then she might be pleased with that and not with mine.” 

“ Exactly — but the oracle never means to be understood.” 

“Well, I won’t come to you,” said Ellen. “ I don’t like such 
answers. Now for the needlebook !” 

Breathlessly she looked on while the skilful pen did its work ; 
and her exclamations of delight and admiration when the first 
cover was handed to her were not loud but deep. 

“It will do, then, will it? Now let us see — ‘From her dear 
little daughter,’ — there — now ‘Ellen Chauncey’ I suppose must 
be in hieroglyphics.” 

“ In what?” said Ellen. 


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“ 1 mean written in some difficult character.” 

“ Yes,” said Ellen. “ But what was that you said ?” 

“ Hieroglyphics ?” 

Ellen added no more, though she was not satisfied. He looked 
up and smiled. 

“ Do you want to know what that means ?” 

“ Yes, if you please,” said Ellen. 

The pen was laid down while he explained, to a most eager little 
listener. Even the great business of the moment was forgotten. 
From hieroglyphics they went to the pyramids ; and Ellen had got 
to the top of one and was enjoying the prospect (in imagination), 
when she suddenly came down to tell John of her stuffed stocking 
and its contents. The pen went on again, and came to the end of 
the writing by the time Ellen had got to thextoe of the stocking. 

“ Wasn’t it very strange they should give me so many things?” 
said she ; — “ people that don’t know me ?” 

“ Why, no,” said John smiling, — “ I cannot say I think it was 
very strange. Is this all the business you had for my hands ?” 

“ This is all ; and I am very much obliged to you, Mr. John.” 

Her grateful affectionate eye said much more, and he felt well paid. 

Gilbert was next applied to, to paint the rose and the butterfly, 
which, finding so excellent a beginning made in the work, he was very 
ready to do. The girls were then free to set about the embroidery 
of the leaves, which was by no means the business of an hour. 

A very happy Christmas day was that. With their needles and 
thimbles, and rose-coloured silk, they kept by themselves in a 
corner, or in the library, out of the way ; and sweetening their 
talk with a sugar-plum now and then, neither tongues nor needles 
knew any flagging. It was wonderful what they found so much 
to say, but there was no lack. Ellen Chauncey especially was 
inexhaustible. Several times too that day the Cologne bottle was 
handled, the gloves looked at and fondled, the ball tried, and the 
new scissors extolled as “just the thing for their work.” Ellen 
attempted to let her companion into the mystery of oracles and 
hieroglyphics, but was fain to give it up ; little Ellen showed a 
decided preference for American, not to say Ventnor, subjects, 
where she felt more at home. 

Then came Mr. Humphreys ; and Ellen was glad, both for her 
own sake and because she loved to see Alice pleased. Then came 
the great merry Christmas dinner, when the girls had, not talked 
themselves out, but tired themselves with working. Young and 
old dined together to day, and the children not set by themselves, 
but scattered among the grown-up people ; and as Ellen was nicely 
placed between Alice and little Ellen Chauncey, she enjoyed it all 
very much. The large long table surrounded with happy faces ; 
tones of cheerfulness and looks of kindness, and lively talk j the 


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superb display of plate and glass and china ; the stately dinner ; 
and last but not least, the plum pudding. There was sparkling 
wine too, and a great deal of drinking of healths; but Ellen 
noticed that Alice and her brother smilingly drank all theirs in 
water; so when old Mr. Marshman called to her to “hold out her 
glass,” she held it out to be sure and let him fill it, but she lifted 
her tumbler of water to her lips instead, after making him a very 
low bow. Mr. Marshman laughed at her a great deal, and asked 
her if she was “a proselyte to the new notions;” and Ellen 
laughed with him, without having the least idea what he meant, 
and was extremely happy. It was very pleasant too when they 
went into the drawing-room to take coffee. The young ones were 
permitted to have coffee to-night as a great favour. Old Mrs. 
Marshman had the two little ones on either side of her ; and was 
so kind, and held Ellen’s hand in her own, and talked to her about 
her mother, till Ellen loved her. 

After tea there was a great call for games, and young and old 
joined in them. They played the Old Curiosity Shop; and Ellen 
thought Mr. John’s curiosities could not be matched. They played 
the Old Family Coach, Mr. Howard Marshman being the manager, 
and Ellen laughed till she was tired ; she was the coach door, and 
he kept her opening and shutting and swinging and breaking, it 
seemed all the while, though most of the rest were worked just as 
hard. When they were well tired they sat down to rest and hear 
music, and Ellen enjoyed that exceedingly. Alice sang, and Mrs. 
Gillespie, and Miss Sophia, and another lady, and Mr. Howard ; 
sometimes alone, sometimes three or four or all together. 

At last came ten o’clock and the young ones were sent off ; and 
from beginning to end that had been a Christmas day of unbroken 
and unclouded pleasure. Ellen’s last act was to take another look 
at her Cologne bottle, gloves, pincushion, grapes, and paper of 
sugar-plums, which were laid side by side carefully in a drawer. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

But though life’s valley be a vale of tears, 

A brighter scene beyond that vale appears, 

Whose glory, with a light that never fades, 

Shoots between scattered rocks and opening shades. 

Cowper. 

Mr. Humphreys was persuaded to stay over Sunday at Ventnor ; 
and it was also settled that his children should not leave it till after 
New Year. This was less their own wish than his ; he said Alice 
wanted the change, and he wished she looked a little fatter. Be- 
u 26 * 


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sides, the earnest pleadings of the whole family were not to be de- 
nied. Ellen was very glad of this, though there was one drawback 
to the pleasures of Yentnor, — she could not feel quite at home with 
any of the young people but only Ellen Chauncey and her cousin 
George Walsh. This seemed very strange to her; she almost 
thought Margaret Dunscombe was at the bottom of it all, but she 
recollected she had felt something of this before Margaret came. 
She tried to think nothing about it ; and in truth it was not able to 
prevent her from being very happy. The breach however was des- 
tined to grow wider. 

About four miles from Yentnor was a large town called Ran- 
dolph. Thither they drove to church Sunday morning, the whole 
family ; but the hour of dinner and the distance prevented any one 
from going in the afternoon. The members of the family were 
scattered in different parts of the house, most in their own rooms. 
Ellen with some difficulty made her escape from her young com- 
panions, whose manner of spending the time did not satisfy her 
notions of what was right on that day, and went to look in the 
library for her friends. They were there, and alone ; Alice half 
reclining on the sofa, half in her brother’s arms; he was reading 
or talking to her ; there was a book in his hand. 

“Is any thing the matter?” said Ellen, as she drew near; 
“aren’t you well, dear Alice? — Headache? oh, I am sorry. Oh! 
I know ” 

She darted away. In two minutes she was back again with a 
pleased face, her bunch of grapes in one hand, her bottle of 
Cologne water in the other. 

“ Won’t you open that, please, Mr. John,” said she ; — “ I can’t 
open it ; I guess it will do her good, for Ellen says it’s delicious. 
Mamma used to have Cologne water for her headaches. And here, 
dear Alice, won’t you eat these ? — do ! — try one.” 

“ Hasn’t that bottle been open yet?” said Alice, as she smilingly 
took a grape. 

“ Why no, to be sure it hasn’t. I wasn’t going to open it till I 
wanted it. Eat them all, dear Alice, — please do !” 

“ But I don’t think you have eaten one yourself, Ellen, by the 
look of the bunch. And here are a great many too many for me.” 

“Yes I have, I’ve eaten two; I don’t want ’em. I give them 
all to you and Mr. John. I had a great deal rather !” 

Ellen took however as precious payment Alice’s look and kiss ; 
and then with a delicate consciousness that perhaps the brother 
and sister might like to be alone, she left the library. She did not 
know where to go, for Miss Sophia was stretched on the bed in her 
room, and she did not want any company. At last with her little 
Bible she placed herself on the old sofa in the hall above stairs, 
which was perfectly well warmed, and for some time she was left 


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there in peace. It was pleasant, after all the hubbub of the morn- 
ing, to have a little quiet time that seemed like Sunday ; and the 
sweet Bible words came, as they often now came to Ellen, with a 
healing breath. But after half an hour or so, to her dismay she 
heard a door open and the whole gang of children come trooping 
into the hall below, where they soon made such a noise that read- 
ing or thinking was out of the question. 

“ What a bother it is that one can’t play games on a Sunday !” 
said Marianne Gillespie. 

“ One can play games on a Sunday,” answered her brother. 
“ Where’s the odds? It’s all Sunday’s good for, I think.” 

“ William ! — William !” sounded the shocked voice of little 
Ellen Chauncey, — “you’re a real wicked boy!” 

“ Well now !” said William, — “ how am I wicked ? Now say, — 
I should like to know. How is it any more wicked for us to play 
games than it is for aunt Sophia to lie abed and sleep, or for uncle 
Howard to read novels, or for grandpa to talk politics, or for mother 
to talk about the fashions? — there were she and Miss What’s-her- 
name for ever so long this morning doing every thing but make 
a dress. Now which is the worst?” 

“ Oh, William ! — William ! — for shame ! for shame !” said little 
Ellen again. 

“ Ho hush, Ellen Chauncey ! will you?” said Marianne, sharply ; 
— “and you had better hush too, William, if you know what is 
good for yourself. I don’t care whether it’s right or wrong, I do 
get dolefully tired with doing nothing.” 

“Oh, so do I!” said Margaret, yawning. “I wish one could 
sleep all Sunday.” 

“I’ll tell you what,” said George, “ I know a game we can play, 
and no harm, either, for it’s all out of the Bible.” 

“ Oh, do you? let’s hear it, George,” cried the girls. 

“ I don’t believe it is good for anything if it is out of the Bible,” 
said Margaret. “ Now stare, Ellen Chauncey, do !” 

“I ain't staring,” said Ellen indignantly, — “ but I don’t believe 
it is right to play it, if it is out of the Bible.” 

“ Well it is though,” said George. “ Now listen ; — I’ll think of 
somebody in the Bible, — some man or woman, you know ; and you 
all may ask me twenty questions about him to see if you can find 
out who it is.” 

“ What kind of questions ?” 

“ Any kind of questions — whatever you like.” 

“ That will improve your knowledge of scripture history,” said 
Gilbert. 

“To be sure ; and exercise our memory,” said Isabel Hawthorn. 
“ Yes, and then we are thinking of good people and what they 
did, all the time,” said little Ellen. 


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“ Or bad people and what they did,” said William. 

“ But I don’t know enough about people and things in the 
Bible,” said Margaret; ‘<1 couldn’t guess.” 

“ Oh, never mind — it will be all the more fun,” said George. 
“Come! let’s begin. Who’ll take somebody?” 

“Oh, I think this will be fine!” said little Ellen Chauncey ; — 
“ but Ellen — where’s Ellen? — we want her.” 

“ No we don’t want her ! — we’ve enough without her — she won’t 
play !” shouted William, as the little girl ran up stairs. She per- 
severed however. Ellen had left her sofa before this, and was 
found seated on the foot of her bed. As far and as long as she 
could she withstood her little friend’s entreaties, and very unwill- 
ingly at last yielded and went with her down stairs. 

“Now we are ready,” said little Ellen Chauncey ; “I have told 
Ellen what the game is ; who’s going to begin ?” 

“We have begun,” said William. “Gilbert has thought of 
somebody. Man or woman?” 

“Man.” 

“ Young or old ?” 

“ Why — he was young first and old afterwards.” 

“Pshaw, William! what a ridiculous question,” said his sister. 
“ Besides you mustn’t ask more than one at a time. Bich or poor, 
Gilbert?” 

“ Humph ! — why I suppose he was moderately well off. I dare 
say I should think myself a lucky fellow if I had as much.” 

“Are you answering truly, Gilbert?” 

“ Upon my honour !” 

“Was he in a high or low station of life?” asked Miss Haw- 
thorn. 

“Neither at the top nor the bottom of the ladder — a very re- 
spectable person indeed.” 

“ But we are not getting on,” said Margaret ; “ according to you 
he wasn’t any thing in particular ; what kind of a person was he, 
Gilbert?” 

“ A very good man.” 

“ Handsome or ugly ?” 

“ History don’t say.” 

“ Well, what does it say?” said George, — “ what did he do?” 

“ He took a journey once upon a time.” 

“ What for?” 

“ Do you mean why he went, or what was the object of his 
going ?” 

“ Why the one’s the same as the other, ain’t it?” 

“ I beg your pardon.” 

“Well, what was the object of his going?” 

“ He went after a wife.” 


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“Samson! Samson!” shouted William and Isabel and Ellen 
Chauncey. 

“ No — it wasn’t Samson either.” 

“I can’t think of any body else that went after a wife,” said 
George. “ That king — what’s his name ? — that married Esther ?” 

The children screamed. “ He didn’t go after a wife, George, — 
his wives were brought to him. Was it Jacob?” 

“ No — he didn’t go after a wife either,” said Gilbert ; “he mar- 
ried two of them, but he didn’t go to his uncle’s to find them. You 
had better go on with your questions. You have had eight already. 
If you don’t look out you won’t catch me. Come !” 

“ Did he get the wife that he went after ?’ ’ asked Ellen Chaun- 
cey. 

“ He was never married that I know of,” said Gilbert. 

“ What was the reason he failed?” said Isabel. 

“ He did not fail.” 

“ Did he bring home his wife then ? you said he wasn’t married.” 

“He never was, that I know of; but he brought home a wife 
notwithstanding.’ ’ 

“ But how funny you are, Gilbert,” said little Ellen, — “he had 
a wife and he hadn’t a wife ; — what became of her?” 

u She lived and flourished. Twelve questions ; — take care.” 

“Nobody asked what country he was of,” said Margaret, — 
“ what was he, Gilbert?” 

“ He was a Damascene.” 

“ A what? 1 ' 

“ Of Damascus — of Damascus. You know where Damascus is, 
don’t you?” 

“ Fiddle !” said Marianne, — “ I thought he was a Jew. Did he 
live before or after the flood ?” 

“ After. I should think you might have known that.” 

“ Well, I can’t make out any thing about him,” said Marianne. 
“We shall have to give it up.” 

“ No, no, — not yet,” said William. “ Where did he go after his 
wife ?” 

“ Too close a question.” 

“ Then that don’t count. Had he ever seen her before?” 

“ Never.” 

“Was she willing to go with him ?” 

“ Very willing. Ladies always are when they go to be married.” 

“And what became of her?” 

“ She was married and lived happily, — as I told you.” 

“ But you said he wasn’t married ?” 

“Well, what then? I didn’t say she married him." 

“ Whom did she marry?” 

“ Ah that is asking the whole ; I can’t tell you.” 


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“ Had they far to go ?” asked Isabel. 

“ Several days’ journey, — I don’t know how far.” 

“ How did they travel?” 

“ On camels.” 

“Was it the Queen of Sheba !” said little Ellen. 

There was a roar of laughter at this happy thought, and poor 
little Ellen declared she forgot all but about the journey; she 
remembered the Queen of Sheba had taken a journey, and the 
camels in the picture of the Queen of Sheba, and that made her 
think of her. 

The children gave up. Questioning seemed hopeless ; and Gil- 
bert at last told them his thought. It was Eleazar, Abraham’s 
steward, whom he sent to fetch a wife for his son Isaac. 

“Why haven’t you guessed, little mum chance ?” said Gilbert 
to Ellen Montgomery. 

“ I have guessed,” said Ellen ; — “ I knew who it was some time 
ago” 

“Then why didn’t you say so? and you haven’t asked a single 
question,” said George. 

“ No, you haven’t asked a single question,” said Ellen Chauncey. 

“ She is a great deal too good for that,” said William ; “ she 
thinks it is wicked, and that we are not at all nice proper-behaved 
boys and girls to be playing on Sunday ; she is very sorry she 
could not help being amused.” 

“ Do you think it is wicked, Ellen?” asked her little friend. 

“ Ho you think it isn’t right?” said George Walsh. 

Ellen hesitated ; she saw they were all waiting to hear what she 
would say. She coloured, and looked down at her little Bible 
which was still in her hand. It encouraged her. 

“I don’t want to say any thing rude,” she began; — “I don’t 
think it is quite right to play such plays, or any plays.” 

She was attacked with impatient cries of “Why not?” “Why 
not?” 

“Because,” said Ellen, trembling with the effort she made, — 
“ I think Sunday was meant to be spent in growing better and 
learning good things; and I don’t think such plays would help 
one at all to do that ; and I have a kind of feeling that I ought 
not to do it.” 

“Well I hope you’ll act according to your feelings then,” said 
William ; “lam sure nobody has any objection. You had better 
go somewhere else though, for we are going on ; we have been 
learning to be good long enough for one day. Come ! I have 
thought of somebody.” 

Ellen could not help feeling hurt and sorry at the half sneer 
she saw in the look and manner of the others as well as in Wil- 
liam’s words. She wished for no better than to go away, but as 


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she did so her bosom swelled and the tears started and her breath 
came quicker. She found Alice lying down and asleep, Miss 
Sophia beside her ; so she stole out again and went down to the 
library. Finding nobody, she took possession of the sofa and 
tried to read again ; reading somehow did not go well, and she fell 
to musing on what had just passed. She thought of the unkind- 
ness of the children ; how sure she was it was wrong to spend any 
part of Sunday in such games ; what Alice would think of it, 
and John, and her mother; and how the Sundays long ago used 
to be spent, when that dear mother was with her ; and then she 
wondered how she was passing this very one, — while Ellen was 
sitting here in the library alone, what she was doing in that far- 
away land ; and she thought if there only were such things as 
oracles that could tell truly, how much she would like to ask about 
her. 

“ Ellen !” said the voice of John from the window. 

She started up ; she had thought she was alone ; but there he 
was lying in the window seat. 

“ What are you doing ?” 

“ Nothing,” said Ellen. 

“ Come here. What are you thinking about? I didn’t know 
you were there till I heard two or three very long sighs. What is 
the matter with my little sister?” 

He took her hand and drew her fondly up to him. “ What were 
you thinking about?” 

“ I was thinking about different things, — nothing is the matter,” 
said Ellen. 

“ Then what are those tears in your eyes for?” 

“I don’t know,” said she laughing, — “there weren’t any till I 
came here. I was thinking just now about mamma.” 

He said no more, still however keeping her beside him. 

“I should think,” said Ellen presently, after a few minutes’ 
musing look out of the window, — “ it would be very pleasant if 
there were such things as oracles — don’t you, Mr. John?” 

“No.” 

“ But wouldn’t you like to know something about what’s going 
to happen ?” 

“ I do know a great deal about it.” 

“ About what is going to happen 1” 

He smiled. 

“ Yes — a great deal, Elbe, — enough to give me work for all the 
rest of my life.” 

“ Oh, you mean from the Bible ! — I was thinking of other 
things.” 

“It is best not to know the other things, Elbe ; — I am very glad 
to know those the Bible teaches us.” 


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“ But it doesn’t tell us much, does it? What does it tell us?” 
“ Go to the window and tell me what you see.” 

“ I don’t see any thing in particular,” said Ellen, after taking 
a grave look-out. 

“ Well, what in general ?” 

“ Why there is the lawn covered with snow, and the trees and 
bushes; and the sun is shining on every thing just as it did the 



day we came ; and there’s the long shadow of that hemlock across 
the snow, and the blue sky.” 

“ Now look out again, Ellie, and listen. I know that a day is 
to come when those heavens shall be wrapped together as a scroll — 
they shall vanish away like smoke, and the earth shall wax old like 
a garment ; — and it and all the works that are therein shall be 
burned up.” 

As he spoke Ellen’s fancy tried to follow, — to picture the ruin 
and desolation of all that stood so fair and seemed to stand so firm 


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313 


before her; — but the sun shone on, the branches waved gently in 
the wind, the shadows lay still on the snow, and the blue heaven 
was fair and cloudless. Fancy was baffled. She turned from the 
window. 

“ Do you believe it?” said John. 

“Yes,” said Ellen, — “I know it; but I think it is very dis- 
agreeable to think about it.” 

“It would be, Ellie,” said he, bringing her again to his side, — 
“very disagreeable — very miserable indeed, if we knew no more 
than that. But we know more — read here.” 

Ellen took his little Bible and read at the open place. 

“ 1 Behold, I create new heavens and a new earth, and the former 
shall not be remembered, neither come into mind.’ ” 

“ Why won’t they be remembered?” said Ellen ; “ shall we for- 
; get all about them.” 

“No, I do not think that is meant. The new heavens and the 

I i new earth will be so much more lovely and pleasant that we shall 
not want to think of these.” 

Ellen’s eye sought the window again. 

“ You are thinking that it is hardly possible?” said John with 
a smile. 

“ I suppose it is possible” said Ellen, — “ but ” 

“ But lovely as this world is, Ellie, man has filled it with sin, 

« and sin has everywhere brought its punishment, and under the 
! weight of both the earth groans. There will be no sin there; 

sorrow and sighing shall flee away ; love to each other and love to 
j their blessed King will fill all hearts, and his presence will be with 
them. Don’t you see that even if that world shall be in itself no 
better than this, it will yet be far, far more lovely than this can 
ever be with the shadow of sin upon it ?” 

“ Oh, yes !” said Ellen. “ I know whenever I feel wrong in any 
way nothing seems pretty or pleasant to me, or not half so much.” 

“Very well,” said John, — “ I see you understand me. I like 
to think of that land, Ellen, — very much.” 

“ Mr. John,” said Ellen, — “ don’t you think people will know 
each other again ?” 

“ Those that love each other here ? — I have no doubt of it.” 
Before either John or Ellen had broken the long musing fit that 
followed these words, they were joined by Alice. Her head was 
better ; and taking her place in the window-seat, the talk began 
again, between the brother and sister now ; Ellen too happy to sit 
with them and listen. They talked of that land again, of the 
happy company preparing for it; of their dead mother, but 
not much of her; of the glory of their King, and the joy of his 
service, even here ; — till thoughts grew too strong for words, and 
silence again stole upon the group. The short winter day came to 
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an end ; the sunlight faded away into moonlight. No shadows lay 
now on the lawn ; and from where she sat Ellen could see the great 
hemlock all silvered with the moonlight which began to steal in at 
the window. It was very, very beautiful ; — yet she could think 
now without sorrow that all this should come to an end ; because 
of that new heaven and new earth wherein righteousness should 
dwell. 

“We have eaten up all your grapes, Ellie,” said Alice, — “or 
rather / have, for John didn’t help me much. I think I never ate 
so sweet grapes in my life ; J olm said the reason was because every 
one tasted of you.” 

“I am very glad,” said Ellen laughing. 

“ There is no evil without some good,” Alice went on ; — “ except 
for my headache John would not have held my head by the hour 
as he did; and you couldn’t have given me the pleasure you did, 
Ellie. Oh, Jack ! — there has been many a day lately when I would 
gladly have had a headache for the power of laying my head on 
your shoulder !’ ’ 

“ And if mamma had not gone away I should never have known 
you,” said Ellen. “ I wish she never had gone, but I am very, 
very glad for this !” 

She had kneeled upon the window-seat and clasped Alice round 
the neck, just as they were called to tea. The conversation had 
banished every disagreeable feeling from Ellen’s mind. She met 
her companions in the drawing-room almost forgetting that she had 
any cause of complaint against them. And this appeared when in 
the course of the evening it came in her way to perform some little 
office of politeness for Marianne. It was done with the graceful- 
ness that could only come from a spirit entirely free from ungrateful 
feelings. The children felt it, and for the time were shamed into 
better behaviour. The evening passed pleasantly, and Ellen went 
to bed very happy. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

“ The ancient heroes were illustrious, 

For being benign, and not blustrous.” 

Hudibras. 

The next day it happened that the young people were amusing 
themselves with talking in a room where John Humphreys, walk- 
ing up and down, was amusing himself with thinking. In the 
course of his walk, he began to find their amusement rather dis- 
turbing to his. The children were all grouped closely around 


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Margaret Dunscombe, who was entertaining them with a long and 
very detailed account of a wedding and great party at Randolph 
which she had had the happiness of attending. Eagerly fighting 
her battles over again, and pleased with the rapt attention of her 
hearers, the speaker forgot herself and raised her voice much more 
than she meant to do. As every turn of his walk brought John 
near, there came to his ears sufficient bits and scraps of Margaret’s 
story to give him a very fair sample of the whole ; and he was sorry 
to see Ellen among the rest, and as the rest, hanging upon her 
lips and drinking in what seemed to be very poor nonsense. “ Her 
gown was all blue satin, trimmed here, — and so, — you know, with 
the most exquisite lace, as deep as that, — and on the shoulders 
and here — you know, it was looped up with the most lovely 
bunches of” — here John lost the sense. When he came near 
again she had got upon a different topic — “ ‘ Miss Simmons,’ says 
I, £ what did you do that for ?’ 1 Why,’ says she, ‘ how could I 
help it? I saw Mr. Payne coming, and I thought I’d get behind 

you, and so .’ ” The next time the speaker was saying with 

great animation, “ And lo, and behold, when I was in the midst 
of all my pleasure, up conies a little gentleman of about his 

dimensions .” He had not taken many turns when he saw 

that Margaret’s nonsense was branching out right and left into 
worse than nonsense. 

“ Ellen !” said he suddenly, — “ I want you in the library.” 

“ My conscience !” said Margaret as he left the room, — “ King 
John the Second, and no less.” 

“ Don’t go on till I come back,” said Ellen ; “ I won’t be three 
minutes ; just wait for me.” 

She found John seated at one of the tables in the library sharp- 
ening a pencil. 

“Ellen,” said he in his usual manner, — “I want you to do 
something for me.” 

She waited eagerly to hear what, but instead of telling her he 
took a piece of drawing paper and began to sketch something. 
Ellen stood by, wondering and impatient to the last degree ; not 
caring however to show her impatience, though her very feet were 
twitching to run back to her companions. 

“ Ellen,” said John as he finished the old stump of a tree with 
one branch left on it, and a little bit of ground at the bottom, 
“did you ever try your hand at drawing?” 

“ No,” said Ellen. 

“Then sit down here,” said he rising from his chair, “ and let 
me see what you can make of that.” 

“ But I don’t know how,” said Ellen. 

“I will teach you. There is a piece of paper; and this pencil 
is sharp enough. Is that chair too low for you?” 


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He placed another, and with extreme unwillingness and some 
displeasure Ellen sat down. It was on her tongue to ask if 
another time would not do, but somehow she could not get the 
words out. John showed her how to hold her pencil, how to place 
her paper, where to begin, and how to go on ; and then went to 
the other end of the room and took up his walk again. Ellen at 
first felt more inclined to drive her pencil through the paper than 
to make quiet marks upon it. However necessity was upon her. 
She began her work ; and once fairly begun it grew delightfully 
interesting. Her vexation went off entirely ; she forgot Margaret 
and her story ; the wrinkles on the old trunk smoothed those on 
her brow, and those troublesome leaves at the branch end brushed 
away all thoughts of every thing else. Her cheeks were burning 
with intense interest, when the library door burst open and the 
whole troop of children rushed in ; they wanted Ellen for a round 
game in which all their number were needed ; she must come 
directly. 

“ I can’t come just yet,” said she ; “ I must finish this first.” 

“ Afterwards will do just as well,” said George ; — “ come Ellen, 
do ! — you can finish it afterwards.” 

“No I can’t,” said Ellen, — “ I can’t leave it till it’s done. Why, 
I thought Mr. John was here ! I didn’t see him go out. I’ll come 
in a little while.” 

“Did he set you about that precious piece of business?” said 
William. 

“Yes.” 

“ I declare,” said Margaret, — “he’s fitter to be the Grand Turk 
than any one else I know of.” 

“ I don’t know who the Grand Turk is,” said Ellen. 

“ I’ll tell you,” said William, putting his mouth close to her ear, 
and speaking in a disagreeable loud whisper, — “it’s the biggest 
gobbler in the yard.” 

“Ain’t you ashamed, William !” cried little Ellen Chauncey. 

“ That’s it exactly,” said Margaret, — “always strutting about.” 

“ He isn’t a bit,” said Ellen very angry; “ I’ve seen people a 
great deal more like gobblers than he is.” 

“Well,” said William, reddening in his turn, “I had rather at 
any rate be a good turkey gobbler than one of those outlandish 
birds that have an appetite for stones and glass and bits of mo- 
rocco, and such things. Come, let us leave her to do the Grand 
Turk’s bidding. Come, Ellen Chauncey — you mustn’t stay to in- 
terrupt her — we want you !” 

They left her alone. Ellen had coloured, but William’s words 
did not hit very sore ; since John’s talk with her about the matter 
referred to she had thought of it humbly and wisely ; it is only 
pride that makes such fault-finding very hard to bear. Sho was 


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very sorry however that they had fallen out again, and that her own 
passion, as she feared, had been the cause. A few tears had to be 
wiped away before she could see exactly how the old tree stood, 
— then taking up her pencil she soon forgot every thing in her 
work. It was finished, and with head now on one side, now on the 
other, she was looking at her picture with very great satisfaction, 
when her eye caught the figure of John standing before her. 

“Is it done ?” said he. 

“ It is done,” said Ellen smiling, as she rose up to let him come. 
He sat down to look at it. 

“It is very well, he said, — “ better than I expected, — it is very 
well indeed. Is this your first trial, Ellen?” 

“ Yes — the first.” 

“ You found it pleasant work?” 

“ Oh, very ! — very pleasant. I like it dearly.” 

“ Then I will teach you. This shows you have a taste for it, 
and that is precisely what I wanted to find out. I will give you an 
easier copy next time. I rather expected when you sat down,” 
said he, smiling a little, that the old tree would grow a good deal 
more crooked under your hands than I meant it to be.” 

Ellen blushed exceedingly. “ I do believe, Mr. John,” she said, 
stammering, “ that you know every thing I am thinking about.” 

“ I might do that, Ellen, without being as wise as an oracle. 
But I do not expect to make any very painful discoveries in that 
line.” 

Ellen thought, if he did not, it would not be her fault. She 
truly repented her momentary anger and hasty speech to William. 
Not that he did not deserve it, or that it was not true ; but it was 
unwise, and had done mischief, and “it was not a bit like peace- 
making, nor meek at all,” Ellen said to herself. She had been 
reading that morning the fifth chapter of Matthew, and it ran in 
her head, “Blessed are the meek,” — “Blessed are the peace- 
makers: for they shall be called the children of God.” She strove 
to get back a pleasant feeling toward her young companions, and 
prayed that she might not be angry at any thing they should say. 
She was tried again at tea-time. 

Miss Sophia had quitted the table, bidding William hand the 
doughnuts to those who could not reach them. Marianne took a 
great while to make her choice. Her brother grew impatient. 

“Well, I hope you have suited yourself,” said he. “Come, 
Miss Montgomery, don’t you be as long; my arm is tired. Shut 
your eyes, and then you’ll be sure to get the biggest one in the 
basket.” 

“No, Ellen,” said John, who none of the children thought was 
near, — “it would be ungenerous — I wouldn’t deprive Master Wil- 
liam of his best arguments.” 


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“ What do you mean by my arguments?” said William sharply. 

“Generally, those which are the most difficult to take in,” 
answered his tormentor with perfect gravity. 

Ellen tried to keep from smiling, but could not ; and others of 
the party did not try. William and his sister were enraged, the 
more because John had said nothing they could take hold of, or 
even repeat. Gilbert made common cause with them. 

“ I wish I was grown up for once,” said William. 

“ Will you fight me, sir?” asked Gilbert, who was a matter of 
three years older, and well grown enough. 

His question received no answer, and was repeated. 

“ No, sir.” 

“ Why not, sir?” 

“I am afraid you’d lay me up with a sprained ankle,” said 
John, “ and I should not get back to Doncaster as quickly as I 
must.” 

“ It is very mean of him,” said Gilbert, as John walked away, — 
“ I could whip him I know.” 

“ Who’s that?” said Mr. Howard Marshman. 

“John Humphreys.” 

“ John Humphreys ! You had better not meddle with him, my 
dear fellow. It would be no particular proof of wisdom.” 

“Why, he is no such great affair,” said Gilbert; “he’s tall 
enough to be sure, but I don’t believe he is heavier than I 
am.” 

“You don’t know, in the first place, how to judge of the size 
of a perfectly well-made man ; and in the second place I was not a 
match for him a year ago; so you may judge. I do not know 
precisely,” he went on to the lady he was walking with, “ what it 
takes to rouse John Humphreys, but when he is roused he seems 
to me to have strength enough for twice his bone and muscle. I 
have seen him do curious things once or twice !” 

“That quiet Mr. Humphreys?” 

“Humph!” said Mr. Howard, — “gunpowder is pretty quiet 
stuff so long as it keeps cool.” 

The next day another matter happened to disturb Ellen. Mar- 
garet had received an elegant pair of ear-rings as a Christmas 
present, and was showing them for the admiration of her young 
friends. Ellen’s did not satisfy her. 

“Ain’t they splendid,” said she. “Tell the truth now, Ellen 
Montgomery, wouldn’t you give a great deal if somebody would 
send you such a pair?” 

“They are very pretty,” said Ellen, “but I don’t think I care 
much for such things, — I would rather have the money.” 

“ Oh, you avaricious! — Mr. Marshman!” cried Margaret, as the 
old gentleman was just then passing through the room, — “here’s 


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Ellen Montgomery says she’d rather have money than any thing 
else for her present.” 

He did not seem to hear her, and went out without making any 
reply. 

“Oh, Margaret!” said Ellen, shocked and distressed, — “how 
could you ! how could you ! What will Mr. Marshman think ?” 

Margaret answered she didn’t care what he thought. Ellen 
could only hope he had not heard. 

But a day or two after, when neither Ellen nor her friends were 
present, Mr. Marshman asked who it was that had told him Ellen 
Montgomery would like money better than any thing else for her 
New Year’s present. 

“It was I, sir,” said Margaret. 

“ It sounds very unlike her to say so,” remarked Mrs. Chauncey. 

“Did she say so?” inquired Mr. Marshman. 

“I understood her so,” said Margaret, — “I understood her to 
say she wouldn’t care for any thing else.” 

“Iam disappointed in her,” said the old gentleman ; “ I wouldn’t 
have believed it.” 

“ I do not believe it,” said Mrs. Chauncey quietly ; “ there has 
been some mistake.” 

It was hard for Ellen now to keep to what she thought right. 
Disagreeable feelings would rise when she remembered the impo- 
liteness, the half sneer, the whole taunt, and the real unkindness J 
of several of the young party. She found herself ready to be 
irritated, inclined to dislike the sight of those, even wishing to 
visit some sort of punishment upon them. But Christian principle 
had taken strong hold in little Ellen’s heart ; she fought her evil 
tempers manfully. It was not an easy battle to gain. Ellen 
found that resentment and pride had roots deep enough to keep her 
pulling up the shoots for a good while. She used to get alone when 
she could, to read a verse, if no more, of her Bible, and pray ; she 
could forgive William and Margaret more easily then. Solitude 
and darkness saw many a prayer and tear of hers that week. As 
she struggled thus to get rid of sin and to be more like what would 
please God, she grew humble and happy. Never was such a struggle 
carried on by faith in him, without success. And after a time, 
though a twinge of the old feeling might come, it was very slight ; 
she would bid William and Margaret good-morning, and join them 
in any enterprise of pleasure or business, with a brow as unclouded 
as the sun. They, however, were too conscious of having behaved 
unbecomingly toward their little stranger guest to be over fond of 
her company. For the most part she and Ellen Chauncey were 
left to each other. 

Meanwhile the famous needlebook was in a fair way to be fin- 
ished. Great dismay had at first been excited in the breast of the 


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intended giver, by the discovery that Gilbert had consulted what 
seemed to be a very extraordinary fancy, in making the rose a yel- 
low one. Ellen did her best to comfort her. She asked Alice, and 
found there were such things as yellow roses, and they were very 
beautiful too ; and besides it would match so nicely the yellow but- 
terfly on the other leaf. 

“ I had rather it wouldn’t match !” said Ellen Chauncey ; — “ and 
it don’t match the rose-coloured silk besides. Are the yellow roses 
sweet?” 

“No,” said Ellen, — “but this couldn’t have been a sweet rose 
at any rate, you know.” 

“Oh, but,” said the other, bursting out into a fresh passion of 
inconsolable tears, — “ I wanted it should be the picture of a sweet 
rose ! — And I think he might have put a purple butterfly — yellow 
butterflies are so common ! I had a great deal rather have had a 
purple butterfly and a red rose !” 

What cannot be cured, however, must be endured. The tears 
were dried, in course of time, and the needlebook with its yellow 
pictures and pink edges was very neatly finished. Ellen had been 
busy too on her own account. Alice had got a piece of fine linen 
for her from Miss Sophia ; the collar for Mr. Van Brunt had been 
cut out, and Ellen with great pleasure had made it. The stitching, 
the strings, and the very button-hole, after infinite pains, were all 
finished by Thursday night. She had also made a needlecase for 
Alice, not of so much pretension as the other one ; this was green 
morocco lined with crimson satin ; no leaves, but ribbon stitched 
in to hold papers of needles, and a place for a bodkin. Ellen 
worked very hard at this ; it was made with the extremest care, 
and made beautifully. Ellen Chauncey admired it very much, and 
anew lamented the uncouth variety of colours in her own. It was 
a grave question whether pink or yellow ribbon should be used for 
the latter; Ellen Montgomery recommended pink, she herself in- 
clined to yellow ; and tired of doubting, at last resolved to split the 
difference and put one string of each colour. Ellen thought that 
did not mend matters, but wisely kept her thoughts to herself. Be- 
sides the needlecase for Alice, she had snatched the time whenever 
she could get away from Ellen Chauncey to work at something for 
her. She had begged Alice’s advice and help ; and between them, 
out of Ellen’s scraps of morocco and silk, they had manufactured 
a little bag of all the colours of the rainbow, and very pretty and 
tasteful withal. Ellen thought it a chef-d’oeuvre, and was un- 
bounded in her admiration. It lay folded up in white paper in a 
locked drawer ready for New Year’s day. In addition to all these 
pieces of business John had begun to give her drawing lessons, 
according to his promise. These became Ellen’s delight. She 
would willingly have spent much more time upon them than he 


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would allow her. It was the most loved employment of the day. 
Her teacher’s skill was not greater than the perfect gentleness and 
kindness with which he taught. Ellen thought of Mr. Howard’s 
i : speech about gunpowder, — she could not understand it. 

“ What is your conclusion on the whole?” asked John one day, 
as he stood beside her mending a pencil. 

“Why,” said Ellen, laughing and blushing, — “how could you 
guess what I was thinking about, Mr. John?” 

“ Not very difficult, when you are eying me so hard.” 

“I was thinking,” said Ellen, — “I don’t know whether it is 

right in me to tell it — because somebody said you ” 

“ Well?” 

“ Were like gunpowder.” 

“ Very kind of somebody ! And so you have been in doubt of 
an explosion?” 

“No — I don’t know — I wondered what he meant.” 

“Never believe what you hear said of people, Ellen ; judge for 
yourself. Look here — that house has suffered from a severe gale 
of wind, I should think — all the uprights are slanting off to the 
right — can’t you set it up straight?” 

Ellen laughed at the tumble-down condition of the house as thus 
pointed out to her, and set about reforming it. 

It was Thursday afternoon that Alice and Ellen were left alone 
in the library, several of the family having been called out to 
receive some visitors ; Alice had excused herself, and Ellen as soon 
as they were gone nestled up to her side. 

“ How pleasant it is to be alone together, dear Alice ! — I don’t 
have you even at night now.” 

“It is very pleasant, dear Ellie ! Home will not look disa- 
greeable again, will it? even after all our gayety here.” 

“No indeed! — at least your home won’t — I don’t know what 
mine will. Oh, me! I had almost forgotten aunt Fortune! — ” 

“Never mind, dear Ellie ! You and I have each something to 
bear — we must be brave and bear it manfully. There is a friend 
that sticketh closer than a brother, you know. We shan’t be 
unhappy if we do our duty and love Him.” 

“ How soon is Mr. John going away?” 

“ Not for all next week. And so long as he stays, I do not 
mean that you shall leave me.” 

Ellen cried for joy. 

“I can manage it with Miss Fortune I know,” said Alice. 
“These fine drawing lessons must not be interrupted. John is 
very much pleased with your performances.” 

“ Is he?” said Ellen delighted; — “I have taken all the pains I 
could.” 

“ That is the sure way to success, Ellie. But, Ellie, I want to 


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ask you about something. What was that you said to Margaret 
Dunscombe about wanting money for a New Year’s present?” 

“You know it then !” cried Ellen, starting up. “Oh, I’m so 
glad! I wanted to speak to you about it so I didn’t know what 
to do, and I thought I oughtn’t to. What shall I do about it, 
dear Alice ? How did you know ? George said you were not 
there.” 

“Mrs. Chauncey told me; she thought there had been some 
mistake, or something wrong; — how was it, Ellen?” 

“Why,” said Ellen, “she was showing us her ear-rings, and 
asking us what we thought of them, and she asked me if I 
wouldn’t like to have such a pair ; and I thought I would a great 
deal rather have the money they cost, to buy other things with, 
you know, that I would like better ; and I said so ; and just then 
Mr. Marshman came in, and she called out to him, loud, that I 
wanted money for a present, or would like it better than any thing 
else, or something like that. Oh, Alice, how I felt ! I was 
frightened ; — but then I hoped Mr. Marshman did not hear her, 
for he did not say any thing ; but the next day George told me all 
about what she had been saying in there, and oh, it made me so 
unhappy !” said poor Ellen, looking very dismal. “ What will Mr. 
Marshman think of me ? he will think I expected a present, and I 
never dreamed of such a thing ! it makes me ashamed to speak of 
it even; and I cant bear he should think so — I can’t bear it ! 
What shall I do, dear Alice?” 

“I don’t know what you can do, dear Ellie, but be patient. 
Mr. Marshman will not think anything very hard of you, I dare 
say.” 

“ But I think he does already; he hasn’t kissed me since that 
as he did before; I know he does, and I don’t know what to do. 
How could Margaret say that ! oh, how could she ! it was very 
unkind. — What can I do?” said Ellen again, after a pause, and 
wiping away a few tears. “ Couldn’t Mrs. Chauncey tell Mr. 
Marshman not to give me any thing, for that I never expected it, 
and would a great deal rather not ?” 

“ Why no, Ellie, I do not think that would be exactly the best 
or most dignified way.” 

“ What then, dear Alice ? I’ll do just as you say.” 

“ I would just remain quiet.” 

“ But Ellen says the things are all put on the plates in the 
morning ; and if there should be money on mine — I don’t know 
what I should do, I should feel so badly. I couldn’t keep it, Alice ! 
—I couldn’t!” 

“ Very well — you need not — but remain quiet in the meanwhile ; 
and if it should be so, then say what you please, only take care 
that you say it in the right spirit and in a right manner. Nobody 


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can hurt you much, my child, while you keep the even path of 
duty ; poor Margaret is her own worst enemy.” 

“ Then if there should be money in the morning, I may tell Mr. 
Marshman the truth about it ?” 

“ Certainly — only do not be in haste; speak gently.” 

“ Oh, I wish every body would be kind and pleasant always!” 
said poor Ellen, but half comforted. 

u What a sigh was there !” said John, coming in. “ What is the 
matter with my little sister?” 

“ Some of the minor trials of life, John,” said Alice with a 
smile. 

“ What is the matter, Ellie?” 

“ Oh, something you can’t help,” said Ellen. 

“ And something I mustn’t know. Well, to change the scene, — 
suppose you go with me to visit the greenhouse and hothouses. 
Have you seen them yet?” 

“No,” said Ellen, as she eagerly sprang forward to take his 
hand; — “Ellen promised to go with me, but we have been so 
busy.” 

“ Will you come, Alice?” 

“Not I,” said Alice, — “ I wish I could, but I shall be wanted 
elsewhere.” 

“ By whom I wonder so much as by me,” said her brother. 
“ However, after to-morrow I will have you all to myself.” 

As he and Ellen were crossing the hall they met Mrs. Marshman. 

“ Where are you going, John ?” said she. 

“ Where I ought to have been before ma’am, — to pay my respects 
to Mr. Hutchinson.” 

“You’ve not seen him yet! that is very ungrateful of you. 
Hutchinson is one of your warmest friends and admirers. There 
are few people he mentions with so much respect, or that he is so 
glad to see, as Mr. John Humphreys.” 

“ A distinction I owe, I fear, principally to my English blood,” 
said John shaking his head. 

“It is not altogether that,” said Mrs. Marshman laughing;, 
“though I do believe I am the only Yankee good Hutchinson has 
ever made up his mind entirely to like. But go and see him, do, 
he will be very much pleased.” 

“ Who is Mr. Hutchinson ?” said Ellen as they went on. 

“ He is the gardener, or rather the head gardener. He came 
out with his master some thirty or forty years ago, but his old 
English prejudice will go to the grave with him, I believe.” 

“ But why don’t he like the Americans?” 

John laughed. “ It would never do for me to attempt to answer 
that question, Ellie, fond of going to the bottom of things as you 
are. We should just get to hard fighting about tea-time, and should 


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barely make peace by mid-day to-morrow at the most moderate 
calculation. You shall have an answer to your question however.” 

Ellen could not conceive what he meant, but resolved to wait 
for his promised answer. 

As they entered the large and beautifully kept greenhouse 
Hutchinson came from the further end of it to meet them ; an old 
man, of most respectable appearance. He bowed very civilly, and 
then slipped his pruning knife into his left hand to leave the right 
at liberty for John, who shook it cordially. 

“And why ’aven’t you been to see me before, Mr. John? I 
’ave thought it rather ’ard of you, Miss h’ Alice has come several 
times.” 

“The ladies have more leisure, Mr. Hutchinson. You look 
flourishing here.” 

“ Why yes, sir, — pretty middling within doors; but I don’t like 
the climate, Mr. John, I don’t the climate, sir. There’s no country 
like h’ England, I believe, for my business. ’Ere’s a fine rose, sir, 
— if you’ll step a bit this way — quite a new kind — I got it over last 
h’ autumn — the Palmerston it is. Those are fine buds, sir.” 

The old man was evidently much pleased to see his visitor, and 
presently plunged him deep into English politics, for which he 
seemed to have lost no interest by forty years life in America. As 
Ellen could not understand what they were talking about, she 
quitted John’s side and went wandering about by herself. From 
the moment the sweet aromatic smell of the plants had greeted her 
she had been in a high state of delight ; and now lost to all the 
world beside, from the mystery of one beautiful and strange green 
thing to another, she went wondering and admiring, and now and 
then timidly advancing her nose to see if something glorious was 
something sweet too. She could hardly leave a superb cactus, in 
the petals of which there was such a singular blending of scarlet 
and crimson as almost to dazzle her sight; and if the pleasure of 
smell could intoxicate she would have reeled away from a luxuriant 
daphne odorata in full flower, over which she feasted for a long 
.time. The variety of green leaves alone was a marvel to her ; some 
rough and brown-streaked, some shining as if they were varnished, 
others of hair-like delicacy of structure, — all lovely. At last she 
stood still with admiration and almost held her breath before a white 
camellia. 

“ What does that flower make you think of, Ellen ?” said John 
coming up ; his friend the gardener had left him to seek a news- 
paper in which he wished to show him a paragraph. 

“ I don’t know,” said Ellen, — “I couldn’t think of anything 
but itself.” 

“ It reminds me of what I ought to be — and of what I shall be 
if I ever see heaven ; it seems to me the emblem of a sinless pure 



“ Ellen watched him as the bunch grew in his hand ” 


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spirit, — looking up in fearless spotlessness Do you remember 
what was said to the old Church of Sardis ? — ‘ Thou hast a few 
names that have not defiled their garments ; and they shall walk 
with me in white, for they are worthy.’ ” 

The tears rushed to Ellen’s eyes, she felt she was so very unlike 
this ; but Mr. Hutchinson coming back prevented any thing more 
from being said. She looked at the white camellia ; it seemed to 
speak to her. 

u That’s the paragraph, sir,” said the old gardener, giving the 
paper to John. “’Ere’s a little lady that is fond of flowers, if I 
don’t make a mistake ; this is somebody I’ve not seen before. Is 
this the little lady little Miss h’Ellen was telling me about?” 

“I presume so,” said John ; — “ she is Miss Ellen Montgomery, 
a sister of mine, Mr. Hutchinson, and Mr. Marshman’s guest.” 

“ By both names h’entitled to my greatest respect,’ ’ said the 
old man, stepping back and making a very low bow to Ellen with 
his hand upon his heart, at which she could not help laughing. 
“I am very glad to see Miss h’Ellen ; what can I do to make her 
remember old ’Utchinson ? Would Miss h’Ellen like a bouquet?” 

Ellen did not venture to say yes, but her blush and sparkling 
eyes answered him. The old gardener understood her, and was as 
good as his word. He began with cutting a beautiful sprig of a 
large purple geranium, then a slip of lemon myrtle. Ellen watched 
him as the bunch grew in his hand, and could hardly believe her 
eyes as one beauty after another was added to what became a most 
elegant bouquet. And most sweet too ; to her joy the delicious 
daphne and fragrant lemon blossom went to make part of it. 
Her thanks, when it was given her, were made with few words 
but with all her face ; the old gardener smiled, and was quite 
satisfied that his gift was not thrown away. He afterwards showed 
them his hothouses, where Ellen was astonished and very much 
interested to see ripe oranges and lemons in abundance, and pines 
too, such as she had been eating since she came to Ventnor, think- 
ing nothing less than that they grew so near home. The grapes 
had all been cut. 

There was to be quite a party at Ventnor in the evening of 
New Year’s day. Ellen knew this, and destined her precious 
flowers for Alice’s adornment. How to keep them in the mean- 
while? She consulted Mr. John, and according to his advice 
took them to Mrs. Bland the housekeeper, to be put in water and 
kept in a safe place for her till the time. She knew Mrs. Bland, 
for Ellen Chauncey and she had often gone to her room to work 
where none of the children would find and trouble them. Mrs. 
Bland promised to take famous care of the flowers, and said she 
would do it with the greatest pleasure. Mr. Marshman’s guests, 
she added smiling, — must have every thing they wanted. 

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u What does that mean, Mrs. Bland?” said Ellen. 

“Why, you see, Miss Ellen, there’s a deal of company always 
coming, and some is Mrs. Gillespie’s friends, and some Mr. Howard’s, 
and some to see Miss Sophia more particularly, and some belong 
to Mrs. Marshman, or the whole family maybe ; but now and then 
Mr. Marshman has an old English friend or so, that he sets the 
greatest store by ; and them he calls his guests ; and the best in 
the house is hardly good enough for them, or the country either.” 

“ And so I am one of Mr. Marshman’ s guests !” said Ellen, “ I 
didn’t know what it meant.” 

She saved out one little piece of rose-geranium from her flowers, 
for the gratification of her own nose ; and skipped away through 
the hall to rejoin her companions, very light-hearted indeed. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

This life, sae far’s I understand, 

Is a’ enchanted fairy-land, 

Where pleasure is the magic wand, 

That wielded right, 

Makes hours like minutes, hand in hand. 

Dance by fu’ light. 

Burns. 

New Year’s morning dawned. 

“ How I wish breakfast was over!” — thought Ellen as she was 
dressing. However, there is no way of getting over this life but 
by going through it ; so when the bell rang she went down as 
usual. Mr. Marshman had decreed that he would not have a con- 
fusion of gifts at the breakfast table ; other people might make 
presents in their own way ; they must not interfere with his. 
Needlecases, bags, and so forth, must therefore wait another op- 
portunity ; and Ellen Chauncey decided it would just make the 
pleasure so much longer, and was a great improvement on the old 
plan. £C Happy New Years” and pleasant greetings were exchanged 
as the party gathered in the breakfast room ; pleasure sat on all 
faces, except Ellen’s, and many a one wore a broad smile as they 
sat down to table. For the napkins were in singular disarrange- 
ment this morning ; instead of being neatly folded up on the 
plates, in their usual fashion, they were in all sorts of disorder, — 
sticking up in curious angles, some high, some low, some half 
folded, some quite unfolded, according to the size and shape of 
that which they covered, It was worth while to see that long 
tableful, and the faces of the company, before yet a napkin was 
touched. An anxious glance at her own showed Ellen that it lay 


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quite flat ; Alice’s, which was next, had an odd little rising in the 
middle, as if there were a small dumpling under it. Ellen was in 
an agony for this pause to come to an end. It was broken by some 
of the older persons, and then in a trice every plate was uncovered. 
And then what a buzz ! — pleasure and thanks and admiration, and 
even laughter. Ellen dreaded at first to look at her plate ; she be- 
thought her, however, that if she waited long she would have to do 
it with all eyes upon her ; she lifted the napkin slowly — yes — j ust 
as she feared — there lay a clean bank-note — of what value she 
could not see, for confusion covered her ; the blood rushed to her 
cheeks and the tears to her eyes. She could not have spoken, and 
happily it was no time then ; every body else was speaking ; she 
could not have been heard. She had time to cool and recollect 
herself ; but she sat with her eyes cast down, fastened upon her 
plate and the unfortunate bank-bill, which she detested with all 
her heart. She did not know what Alice had received ; she under- 
stood nothing that was going on, till Alice touched her and said 
gently, “ Mr. Marshman is speaking to you, Ellen.” 

“ Sir!” said Ellen, starting. 

“ You need not look so terrified,” said Mr. Marshman, smiling; 
— “ I only asked you if your bill was a counterfeit — something 
seems to be wrong about it.” 

Ellen looked at her plate and hesitated. Her lip trembled. 

“ What is it ?” continued the old gentleman. 11 Is any thing the 
matter.” 

Ellen desperately took up the bill, and with burning cheeks 
marched to his end of the table. 

“ I am very much obliged to you, sir, but I had a great deal 
rather not ; — if you please — if you will please to be so good as to 
let me give it back to you — I should be very glad.” — 

u Why hoity toity !” said the old gentleman, — “ what’s all this ? 
what’s the matter? don’t you like it? I thought I was doing the 
very thing that would please you best of all.” 

“ I am very sorry you should think so, sir,” said Ellen, who had 
recovered a little breath, but had the greatest difficulty to keep 
back her tears ; — “ I never thought of such a thing as your giving 
me any thing, sir, till somebody spoke of it, and I had rather never 
have any thing in the world than that you should think what you 
thought about me.” 

“ What did I think about you?” 

“ George told me that somebody told you, sir, I wanted money 
for my present.’ ’ 

“ And didn’t you say so ?” 

“ Indeed I didn’t, sir !” said Ellen with a sudden fire. “ I never 
thought of such a thing !” 

“ What did you say then ?” 


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u Margaret was showing us her ear-rings, and she asked ine if I 
wouldn’t like to have some like them ; and I couldn’t help thinking 
I would a great deal rather have the money they would cost to buy 
something for Alice ; and just when I said so you came in, sir, and 
she said what she did. I was very much ashamed. I wasn’t 
thinking of you, sir, at all, nor of New Year.” 

“ Then you would like something else better than money.” 

“ No, sir, nothing at all if you please. If you’ll only be so good 
as not to give me this I will be very much obliged to you indeed ; 
and please not to think I could be so shameful as you thought I 
was.” 

Ellen’s face was not to be withstood. The old gentleman took 
the bill from her hand. 

“I will never think any thing of you,” said he, “but what is 
the very tip-top of honourable propriety. But you make me 
ashamed now — what am I going to do with this ? Here have you 
come and made me a present, and I feel very awkward indeed.” 

“I don’t care what you do with it, sir,” said Ellen, laughing, 
though in imminent danger of bursting into tears; — “I am very 
glad it is out of my hands.” 

“ But you needn’t think I am going to let you off so,” said he ; 
“ you must give me half-a-dozen kisses at least to prove that you 
have forgiven me for making so great a blunder.” 

“ Half-a-dozen is too many at once,” said Ellen, gayly ; “ three 
now and three to-night.” 

So she gave the old gentleman three kisses, but he caught her in 
his arms and gave her a dozen at least ; after which he found out that 
the waiter was holding a cup of coffee at his elbow, and Ellen 
went back to her place with a very good appetite for her break- 
fast. 

After breakfast the needlecases were delivered. Both gave the 
most entire satisfaction. Mrs. Chauncey assured her daughter that 
she would quite as lief have a yellow as a red rose on the cover, 
and that she liked the inscription extremely ; which the little girl 
acknowledged to have been a joint device of her own and Ellen’s. 
Ellen’s bag gave great delight, and was paraded all over the house. 

After the bustle of thanks and rejoicing was at last over, and 
when she had a minute to herself, which Ellen Chauncey did not 
give her for a good while, Ellen bethought her of her flowers, — a 
sweet gift still to be made. Why not make it now ? why should 
not Alice have the pleasure of them all day ? A bright thought ! 
Ellen ran forthwith to the housekeeper’s room, and after a long 
admiring look at her treasures, carried them glass and all to the 
library, where Alice and John often were in the morning alone. 
Alice thanked her in the way she liked best, and then the flowers 
were smelled and admired afresh. 


THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD. 329 

“ Nothing could have been pleasanter to me, Elbe, except Mr. 
Marshman’s gift.” 

“And what was that, Alice? I haven t seen it yet.” 

Alice pulled out of her pocket a small round morocco case, the 
very thing that Ellen had thought looked like a dumpling under 
the napkin, and opened it. 

“It’s Mr. John!” exclaimed Ellen. “Oh, how beautiful!” 

I Neither of her hearers could help laughing. 

“It is very fine, Ellie,” said Alice; “you are quite right. 
Now I know what was the business that took John to Randolph 
every day, and kept him there so long, while I was wondering at 
him unspeakably. Kind, kind Mr. Marshman.” 

“Did Mr. John get any thing?” 

“ Ask him, Ellie.” 

“Did you get any thing, Mr. John?” said Ellen, going up to 
> him where he was reading on the sofa. 

“ I got this,” said John, handing her a little book which lay 
I beside him. 

“What is this? Wirne’s — Wiem’s — Life of Washington — 

Washington? he was — May I look at it?” 

“ Certainly !” 

She opened the book, and presently sat down on the floor where 
she was by the side of the sofa. Whatever she had found within 
the leaves of the book, she had certainly lost herself. An hour 
passed. Ellen had not spoken or moved except to turn over 
leaves. 

“ Ellen !” said John. 

She looked up, her cheeks coloured high. 

“What have you found there?” said he, smiling. 

“ Oh, a great deal ! But — did Mr. Marshman give you this?” 

“ No.” 

“ Oh !” said Ellen, looking puzzled, — “ I thought you said you 
got this this morning.” 

“No, I got it last night. I got it for you, Ellie.” 

“ For me !” said Ellen, her colour deepening very much, — “ for 
me ! did you ? Oh, thank you ! — oh, I’m so much obliged to you, 
Mr. John.” 

“ It is only an answer to one of your questions.” 

“This! is it? — I don’t know what, I am sure. Oh, 1 wish I 
could do something to please you, Mr. John !” 

“ You shall, Ellie ; you shall give me a brother’s right again.” 

Blushingly Ellen approached her lips to receive one of his grave 
kisses ; and then, not at all displeased, went down on the floor and 
was lost in her book. 

Oh, the long joy of that New Year’s day ! — how shall it be 
told ? The pleasure of that delightful book, in which she was 

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wrapped the whole day ; even when called off, as she often was, 
by Ellen Chauncey to help her in fifty little matters of business or 
pleasure. These were attended to, and faithfully and cheerfully, 
but the hook was in her head all the while. And this pleasure 
was mixed with Alice’s pleasure, the flowers and the miniature, 
and Mr. Marshman’s restored kindness. She never met John’s 
or Alice’s eye that day without a smile. Even when she went 
to he dressed her book went with her, and was laid on the bed 
within sight, ready to be taken up the moment she was at liberty. 
Ellen Chauncey lent her a white frock which was found to answer 
very well with a tuck let out; and Alice herself dressed her. 
While this was doing, Margaret Dunscombe put her head in at 
the door to ask Anne, Miss Sophia’s maid, if she was almost ready 
to come and curl her hair. 

“Indeed I can’t say that I am, Miss Margaret,” said Anne. 
“I’ve something to do for Miss Humphreys, and Miss Sophia 
hasn’t so much as done the first thing toward beginning to get 
ready yet. It’ll be a good hour and more.” 

Margaret went away exclaiming impatiently that she could get 
nobody to help her, and would have to wait till every body was 
down stairs. 

A few minutes after she heard Ellen’s voice at the door of her 
room asking if she might come in. 

“ Yes — who’s that ? — what do you want?” 

“ I’ll fix your hair if you’ll let me,” said Ellen. 

“ You ? I don’t believe you can.” 

“Oh, yes I can; I used to do mamma’s very often; I am not 
afraid if you’ll trust me.” 

“ Well, thank you, I don’t care if you try then,” said Margaret, 
seating herself, — “it won’t do any harm at any rate; and I want 
to be down stairs before anybody gets here; I think it’s half the 
fun to see them come in. Bless me ! you’re dressed and all ready.” 

Margaret’s hair was in long thick curls ; it was not a trifling 
matter to dress them. Ellen plodded through it patiently and 
faithfully, taking great pains, and doing the work well ; and then 
went back to Alice. Margaret’s thanks, -not very gracefully given, 
would have been a poor reward for the loss of three-quarters of an 
hour of pleasure. But Ellen was very happy in having done right. 
It was no longer time to read ; they must go down stairs. 

The New Year’s party was a nondescript, — young and old 
together; a goodly number of both were gathered from Bandolph 
and the neighbouring country. There were games for the young, 
dancing for the gay, and a superb supper for all; and the big 
bright rooms were full of bright faces. It was a very happy even- 
ing to Ellen. For a good part of it Mr. Marshman took possession 
of her, or kept her near him ; and his extreme kindness would 


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alone have made the evening pass pleasantly ; she was sure he was 
her firm friend again. 

In the course of the evening Mrs. Chauncey found occasion to 
ask her about her journey up the river, without at all mentioning 
Margaret or what she had said. Ellen answered that she had come 
with Mrs. Dunscombe and her daughter. 

“Did you have a pleasant time?” asked Mrs. Chauncey. 

“Why, no, ma’am,” said Ellen, — “I don’t know — it was partly 
pleasant and partly unpleasant.” 

“ What made it so, love?” 

“ I had left mamma that morning, and that made me unhappy.” 

“But you said it was partly pleasant?” 

“ Oh, that was because I had such a good friend on board,” said 
Ellen, her face lighting up as his image came before her. 

“ Who was that?” 

“I don’t know, ma’am, who he was.” 

“ A stranger to you?” 

“ Yes, ma’am — I never saw him before : — I wish I could see him 
again.” 

“ Where did you find him ?” 

“ I didn’t find him — he found me, when I was sitting up on the 
highest part of the boat.” 

“ And your friends with you ?” 

“ What friends ?” 

“ Mrs. Dunscombe and her daughter.” 

“No, ma’am — they were down in the cabin.” 

“ And what business had you to be wandering about the boat 
alone?” said Mr. Marshman, good-humouredly. 

“They were strangers, sir,” said Ellen, colouring a little. 

“Well, so was this man — your friend — a stranger too, wasn’t 
he?” 

“Oh, he was a very different stranger,” said Ellen, smiling, — 
“and he wasn’t a stranger long, besides.” 

“ Well, you must tell me more about him, — come, I’m curious ; 
— what sort of a strange friend was this?” 

“He wasn’t a strange friend,” said Ellen, laughing; — “he was 
a very, very good friend ; he took care of me the whole day ; he 
was very good and very kind.” 

“What kind of a man?” said Mrs. Chauncey; — “a gentle- 
man?” 

“Oh, yes, ma’am!” said Ellen, looking surprised at the ques- 
tion. “I am sure he was.” 

“What did he look like?” 

Ellen tried to tell, but the portrait was not very distinct. 

“ What did he wear? Coat or cloak ?” 

“ Coat — dark brown, I think.” 


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“ This was in the end of October, wasn’t it?” 

Ellen thought a moment and answered “yes.” 

“And you don’t know his name?” 

“No, ma’am ; I wish I did.” 

“ I can tell you,” said Mrs. Chauncey, iling ; — “ he is one of 
my best friends too, Ellen ; it is my brother, Mr. George Marsh- 
man.” 

How Ellen’s face crimsoned! Mr. Marshman asked how she 
knew. 

“ It was then he came up the river, you know, sir ; and don’t 
you remember his speaking of a little girl on board the boat who 
was travelling with strangers, and whom he endeavoured to befriend ? 
I had forgotten it entirely till a minute or two ago.” 

“ Miss Margaret Dunscombe !” cried George Walsh, “ what kind 
of a person was that you said Ellen was so fond of when you came 
up the river?” 

“ I don’t know, nor care,” said Margaret. “ Somebody she 
picked up somewhere.” 

“ It was Mr. George Marshman !” 

“ It wasn’t.” 

“Uncle George!” exclaimed Ellen Chauncey, running up to 
the group her cousin had quitted ; — “ My uncle George ? Do you 
know uncle George, Ellen?” 

“Very much — I mean — yes,” said Ellen. 

Ellen Chauncey was delighted. So was Ellen Montgomery. It 
seemed to bring the whole family nearer to her, and they felt it too. 
Mrs. Marshman kissed her when she heard it, and said she remem- 
bered very well her son’s speaking of her, and was very glad to 
find who it was. And now, Ellen thought, she would surely see 
him again some time. 

The next day they left Ventnor. Ellen Chauncey was very sorry 
to lose her new friend, and begged she would come again “ as soon 
as she could.” All the family said the same. Mr. Marshman told 
her she must give him a large place in her heart, or he should be 
jealous of her “ strange friend and Alice was charged to bring 
her whenever she came to see them. 

The drive back to Carra-carra was scarcely less pleasant than the 
drive out had been ; and home, Ellen said, looked lovely. That is, 
Alice’s home, which she began to think more her own than any 
other. The pleasure of the past ten days, though great, had not 
been unmixed ; the week that followed was one of perfect enjoy- 
ment. In Mr. Humphreys’ household there was an atmosphere of 
peace and purity that even a child could feel, and in which such a 
child as Ellen throve exceedingly. The drawing lessons went on 
with great success ; other lessons were begun ; there were fine long 
walks, and charming sleigh-rides, and more than one visit to Mrs. 


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333 


Yawse ; and what Ellen perhaps liked the best of all, the long 
evenings of conversation and reading aloud, and bright fire-lights, 
and brighter sympathy and intelligence and affection. That week 
did them all good, and no one more than Ellen. 

It was a little hard to go back to Miss Fortune’s and begin her 
old life there. She went on the evening of the day John had 
departed. They were at supper. 

“Well!” said Miss Fortune, as Ellen entered, — “have you got 
enough of visiting ? I should be ashamed to go where I wasn’t 
wanted, for my part.” 

“I haven’t, aunt Fortune,” said Ellen. 

“She’s been nowhere but what’s done her good,” said Mr. Yan 
Brunt; “she’s reely growed handsome since she’s been away.” 

“Grown a fiddlestick l” said Miss Fortune. 

“She couldn’t grow handsomer than she was before,’ said the 
old grandmother, hugging and kissing her little grand-daughter 
with great delight ; — “ the sweetest posie in the garden she always 
was !” 

Mr. Yan Brunt looked as if he entirely agreed with the old lady. 
That, while it made some amends for Miss Fortune’s dryness, per- 
haps increased it. She remarked, that “she thanked Heaven she 
could always make herself contented at home which Ellen could 
not help thinking was a happiness for the rest of the world. 

In the matter of the collar, it was hard to say whether the giver 
or receiver had the most satisfaction. Ellen had begged him not 
to speak of it to her aunt ; and accordingly one Sunday when he 
came there with it on, both he and she were in a state of exquisite 
delight. Miss Fortune’s attention was at last aroused ; she made a 
particular review of him, and ended it by declaring that “he looked 
uncommonly dandified, but she could not make out what he had 
done to himself;” a remark which transported Mr. Yan Brunt and 
Ellen beyond all bounds of prudence. 

Nancy’s Bible, which had been purchased for her at Randolph, 
was given to her the first opportunity. Ellen anxiously watched 
her as she slowly turned it over, her face showing, however, very 
decided approbation of the style of the gift. She shook her head 
once or twice, and then said, 

“ What did you give this to me for, Ellen?” 

“ Because I wanted to give you something for New Year,” said 
Ellen, — “ and I thought that would be the best thing, — if you 
would only read it, — it would make you so happy and good.” 

“ You are good, I believe,” said Nancy, “but I don’t expect 
ever to be myself — I don’t think I could be. You might as well 
teach a snake not to wriggle.” 

“ I am not good at all,” said Ellen, — “ we’re none of us good,” 
— and the tears rose to her eyes, — “ but the Bible will teach us 


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how to be. If you’ll only read it ! — please Nancy, do ! say you 
will read a little every day.” 

“You don’t want me to make a promise I shouldn’t keep, I 
guess, do you?” 

“No,” said Ellen. 

“Well, I shouldn’t keep that, so I won’t promise it; but I tell 
you what I will do, — I’ll take precious fine care of it, and keep it 
always for your sake.” 

“Well,” said Ellen sighing, — “I am glad you will even do so 
much as that. But Nancy — before you begin to read the Bible 
you may have to go where you never can read it, nor be happy 
nor good neither.” 

Nancy made no answer, but walked away, Ellen thought, rather 
more soberly than usual. 

This conversation had cost Ellen some effort. It had not been 
made without a good deal of thought and some prayer. She 
could not hope she had done much good, but she had done her 
duty. And it happened that Mr. Van Brunt, standing behind the 
angle of the wall, had heard every word. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

If erst he wished, now he longed sore. 

Fairfax. 

Ellen’s life had nothing to mark it for many months. The 
rest of the winter passed quietly away, every day being full of 
employment. At home the state of matters was rather bettered. 
Either Miss Fortune was softened by Ellen’s gentle inoffensive 
ways and obedient usefulness, or she had resolved to bear what 
could not be helped, and make the best of the little inmate she 
could not get rid of. She was certainly resolved to make the 
most of her. Ellen was kept on the jump a great deal of the 
time ; she was runner of errands and maid of all work ; to set the 
ta v ble and clear it was only a trifle in the list of her every-day 
duties ; and they were not ended till the last supper dish was put 
away and the hearth swept up. Miss Fortune never spared herself 
and never spared Ellen, so long as she had any occasion for her. 

There were however long pieces of time that were left free ; 
these Ellen seized for her studies and used most diligently. 
Urged on by a three or four-fold motive. For the love of them, 
and for her own sake, — that John might think she had done well, 
— that she might presently please and satisfy Alice, — above all, 


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that her mother’s wishes might be answered. This thought, 
whenever it came, was a spur to her efforts ; so was each of the 
others ; and Christian feeling added another and kept all the rest 
in force. Without this, indolence might have weakened, or temp- 
tation surprised her resolution ; little Ellen was open to both ; but 
if ever she found herself growing careless, from either cause, 
conscience was sure to smite her ; and then would rush in all the 
motives that called upon her to persevere. Soon faithfulness 
began to bring its reward. With delight she found herself getting 
the better of difficulties, beginning to see a little through the mists 
of ignorance, making some sensible progress on the long road of 
learning. Study grew delightful ; her lessons with Alice one of 
her greatest enjoyments. And as they were a labour of love to 
both teacher and scholar, and as it was the aim of each to see 
quite to the bottom of every matter, where it was possible, and to 
leave no difficulties behind them on the road which they had not 
cleared away, no wonder Ellen went forward steadily and rapidly. 
Reading also became a wonderful pleasure. Wiems’ Life of 
Washington was read, and read, and read over again, till she 
almost knew it by heart; and from that she went to Alice’s 
library, and ransacked it for what would suit her. Happily it was 
a well-picked one, and Ellen could not light upon many books that 
would do her mischief. For those, Alice’s wish was enough; — 
she never opened them. Furthermore Alice insisted that when 
Ellen had once fairly begun a book she should go through with it ; 
not capriciously leave it for another, nor have half a dozen about 
at a time. But when Ellen had read it once she commonly wanted 
to go over it again, and seldom laid it aside until she had sucked 
the sweetness all out of it. 

As for drawing, it could not go on very fast while the cold 
weather lasted. Ellen had no place at home where she could 
spread out her paper and copies without danger of being disturbed. 
Her only chance was at the parsonage. John had put all her 
pencils in order before he went, and had left her an abundance of 
copies, marked as she was to take them. They, or some of them, 
were bestowed in Alice’s desk ; and whenever Ellen had a spare 
hour or two, of a fine morning or afternoon, she made the best of 
her way to the mountain ; it made no difference whether Alice 
were at home or not ; she went in, coaxed up the fire, and began 
her work. It happened many a time that Alice, coming home 
from a walk or a run in the woods, saw the little hood and cloak 
on the settee before she opened the glass door, and knew very 
well how she should find Ellen, bending intently over her desk. 
These runs to the mountain were very frequent ; sometimes to 
draw, sometimes to recite, always to see Alice and be happy. Ellen 
grew rosy and hardy, and in spite of her separation from her 


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mother, she was very happy too. Her extreme and varied occupa- 
tion made this possible. She had no time to indulge useless sor- 
row ; on the contrary, her thoughts were taken up with agreeable 
matters, either doing or to be done ; and at night she was far too 
tired and sleepy to lie awake musing. And besides, she hoped 
that her mother would come back in the spring, or the summer at 
farthest. It is true Ellen had no liking for the kind of business 
her aunt gave her; it was oftentimes a trial of temper and 
patience. Miss Fortune was not the pleasantest work-mistress in 
the world, and Ellen was apt to wish to be doing something else ; 
but after all this was not amiss. Besides the discipline of char- 
acter, these trials made the pleasant things with which they were 
mixed up seem doubly pleasant ; the disagreeable parts of her life 
relished the agreeable wonderfully. After spending the whole 
morning with Miss Fortune in the depths of housework, how de- 
lightful it was to forget all in drawing some nice little cottage 
with a bit of stone wall and a barrel in front ; or to go with Alice, 
in thought, to the south of France, and learn how the peasants 
manage their vines and make the wine from them ; or run over the 
Rock of Gibraltar with the monkeys ; or at another time, seated 
on a little bench in the chimney corner, when the fire blazed up 
well, before the candles were lighted, to forget the kitchen and the 
supper and her bustling aunt, and sail round the world with 
Captain Cook. Yes — these things were all the sweeter for being 
tasted by snatches. 

Spring brought new occupation ; household labours began to 
increase in number and measure ; her leisure times were shortened. 
But pleasures were increased too. When the snow went off, and 
spring-like days began to come, and birds’ notes were heard again, 
and the trees put out their young leaves, and the brown mountains 
were looking soft and green, Ellen’s heart bounded at the sight. 
The springing grass was lovely to see ; dandelions were marvels of 
beauty ; to her each wild wood-flower was a never to be enough 
admired and loved wonder. She used to take long rambles with 
Mr. Van Brunt when business led him to the woods, sometimes 
riding part of the way on the ox-sled. Always a basket for 
flowers went along ; and when the sled stopped, she would wander 
all around seeking among the piled-up dead leaves for the white 
wind-flower, and pretty little hang-head Uvularia, and delicate 
blood root, and the wild geranium and columbine ; and many 
others the names of which she did not know. They were like 
friends to Ellen ; she gathered them affectionately as well as ad- 
miringly into her little basket, and seemed to purify herself in 
their pure companionship. Even Mr. Van Brunt came to have an 
indistinct notion that Ellen and flowers were made to be together. 
After he found what a pleasure it was to her to go on these expe- 


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ditions, he made it a point, whenever he was bound to the woods 
of a fine day, to come to the house for her. Miss Fortune might 
object as she pleased; he always found an answer; and at last 
Ellen to her great joy would be told, 11 Well ! go get your bonnet 



and be off with yourself.” Once under the shadow of the big 
trees, the dried leaves crackling beneath her feet, and alone with 
her kind conductor, — and Miss Fortune and all in the world that 
was disagreeable was forgotten — forgotten no more to be remem- 
bered till the walk should come to an end. And it would have 
surprised any body to hear the long conversations she and Mr. 
Van Brunt kept up, — he, the silentest man in Thirl wall ! Their 
talk often ran upon trees, among which Mr. Van Brunt was at 
home. Ellen wanted to become acquainted with them, as well as 
with the little flowers that grew at their feet ; and he tried to 
p w 29 



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teach her how to know each separate kind by the bark and leaf 
and manner of growth. The pine and hemlock and fir were 
easily learnt; the white birch too ; beyond those at first she was 
perpetually confounding one with another. Mr. Van Brunt had to 
go over and over his instructions ; never weary, always vastly 
amused. Pleasant lessons these were! Ellen thought so, and 
Mr. Van Brunt thought so too. 

Then there were walks with Alice, pleasanter still, if that could 
be. And even in the house Ellen managed to keep a token of 
spring-time. On her toilet-table, the three uncouth legs of which 
were now hidden by a neat dimity cover, there always stood a 
broken tumbler with a supply of flowers. The supply was very 
varied, it is true ; sometimes only a handful of dandelions, some- 
times a huge bunch of lilac flowers, which could not be persuaded 
to stay in the glass without the help of the wall, against which it 
leaned in very undignified style ; sometimes the bouquet was of 
really delicate and beautiful wild flowers. All were charming in 
Ellen’s eyes. 

As the days grew long and the weather warm, Alice and she 
began to make frequent trips to the Cat’s back, and French came 
very much into fashion. They generally took Sharp to ease the 
long way, and rested themselves with a good stay on the mountain. 
Their coming was always a joy to the old lady. She was dearly 
fond of them both, and delighted to hear from their lips the 
language she loved best. After a time they spoke nothing else 
when with her. She was well qualified to teach them ; and, 
indeed, her general education had been far from contemptible, 
though nature had done more for her. As the language grew 
familiar to them, she loved to tell and they to hear long stories of 
her youth and native country, — scenes and people so very different 
from all Ellen had ever seen or heard of ; and told in a lively 
simple style which she could not have given in English, and with 
a sweet colouring of Christian thought and feeling. Many things 
made these visits good and pleasant. It was not the least of 
Alice’s and Ellen’s joy to carry their old friend something that 
might be for her comfort in her lonely way of life. For even 
Miss Fortune now and then told Ellen “ she might take a piece of 
that cheese along with her or “ she wondered if the old lady 
would like a little fresh meat? — she guessed she’d cut her a bit 
of that nice lamb; she wouldn’t want but a little piece.” A 
singular testimony this was to the respect and esteem of Mrs. 
Vawse had from every body v Miss Fortune very, very seldom 
was known to take a bit from her own comforts to add to those of 
another. The ruling passion of this lady was thrift ; her next, 
good housewifery. First, to gather to herself and heap up of 
what the world most esteems ; after that, to be known as the 


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most thorough housekeeper and the smartest woman in Thirl- 
wall. 

Ellen made other visits she did not like so well. In the course 
of the winter and summer she became acquainted with most of 
the neighbourhood. She sometimes went with her aunt to a 
formal tea-drinking, one, two, three, or four miles off, as the case 
might be. They were not very pleasant. To some places she 
was asked by herself ; and though the people invariably showed 
themselves very kind, and did their best to please her, Ellen 
seldom cared to go a second time ; liked even home and Miss For- 
tune better. There were a few exceptions ; Jenny Hitchcock was 
one of her favourites, and Jane Huff was another ; and all of their 
respective families came in, with good reason, for a share of her 
regard, Mr. Juniper indeed excepted. Once they went to a quilt- 
ing at Squire Dennison’s; the house was spotlessly neat and well- 
ordered ; the people all kind ; but Ellen thought they did not seem 
to know how to be pleasant. Dan Dennison alone had no stiffness 
about him. Miss Fortune remarked with pride that even in this 
family of pretension, as she thought it, the refreshments could bear 
no comparison with hers. Once they were invited to tea at the 
Lawsons’ ; but Ellen told Alice, with much apparent disgust, that 
she never wanted to go again. Mrs. Van Brunt she saw often. 
To Thirlwall Miss Fortune never went. 

Twice in the course of the summer Ellen had a very great pleas- 
ure in the company of little Ellen Chauncey. Once Miss Sophia 
brought her, and once her mother ; and the last time they made a 
visit of two weeks. On both occasions Ellen was sent for to the 
parsonage and kept while they stayed ; and the pleasure that she 
and her little friend had together cannot be told. It was unmixed 
now. Rambling about through the woods and over the fields, no 
matter where, it was all enchanting ; helping Alice garden ; help- 
ing Thomas make hay, and the mischief they did his haycocks by 
tumbling upon them, and the patience with which he bore it ; the 
looking for eggs ; the helping Margery churn, and the helping 
each other set tables ; the pleasant mornings and pleasant evenings 
and pleasant mid-days, — it cannot be told. Long to be remem- 
bered, sweet and pure, was the pleasure of those summer days, un- 
clouded by a shade of discontent or disagreement on either brow. 
Ellen loved the w r hole Marshman family now, for the sake of one, 
the one she had first known ; and little Ellen Chauncey repeatedly 
told her mother in private that Ellen Montgomery was the very 
nicest girl she had ever seen. They met with joy and parted with 
sorrow, entreating and promising, if possible, a speedy meeting 
again. 

Amidst all the improvement and enjoyment of these summer 
months, and they had a great deal of both for Ellen, there was one 


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cause of sorrow she could not help feeling, and it began to press 
more and more. Letters — they came slowly, — and when they came 
they were not at all satisfactory. Those in her mother’s hand 
dwindled and dwindled, till at last there came only mere scraps of 
letters from her ; and sometimes after a long interval one from 
Captain Montgomery would come alone. Ellen’s heart sickened 
with long-deferred hope. She wondered what could make her 
mother neglect a matter so necessary for her happiness ; sometimes 
she fancied they were travelling about, and it might he inconven- 
ient to write ; sometimes she thought perhaps they were coming 
home without letting her know, and would suddenly surprise her 
some day and make her half lose her wits with joy. But they did 
not come, nor write ; and whatever was the reason, Ellen felt it was 
very sad, and sadder and sadder as the summer went on. Her own 
letters became pitiful in their supplications for letters ; they had 
been very cheerful and filled with encouraging matter, and in part 
they were still. 

For a while her mind was diverted from this sad subject, and 
her brow cleared up, when John came home in August. As be- 
fore, Alice gained Miss Fortune’s leave to keep her at the parson- 
age the whole time of his stay, which was several weeks. Ellen 
wondered that it was so easily granted, but she was much too happy 
to spend time in thinking about it. Miss Fortune had several rea- 
sons. She was unwilling to displease Miss Humphreys, and con- 
scious that it would be a shame to her to stand openly in the way 
of Ellen’s good. Besides, though Ellen’s services were lost for a 
time, yet she said she got tired of setting her to work ; she liked 
to dash round the house alone, without thinking what somebody 
else was doing or ought to be doing. In short she liked to have 
her out of the way for a while. Furthermore, it did not please her 
that Mr. V an Brunt and her little handmaid were, as she expressed 
it, “so thick.” His first thought and his last thought, she said, 
she believed were for Ellen, whether she came in or went out ; and 
Miss Fortune was accustomed to be chief, not only in her own 
house, but in the regards of all who came to it. At any rate the 
leave was granted and Ellen went. 

And now was repeated the pleasure of the first week in January. 
It would have been increased, but that increase was not possible. 
There was only the difference between lovely winter and lovely 
summer weather ; it was seldom very hot in Thirlwall. The fields 
and hills were covered with green instead of white ; fluttering leaves 
had taken the place of snow-covered sprays and sparkling icicles ; 
and for the keen north and brisk northwester, soft summer airs were 
blowing. Ellen saw no other difference, — except that perhaps, if 
it could be, there was something more of tenderness in the manner 
of Alice and her brother toward her. No little sister could have 


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341 


been more cherished and cared for. If there was a change, Mr. 
Humphreys shared it. It is true he seldom took much part in the 
conversation, and seldomer was with them in any of their pursuits 
or pleasures. He generally kept by himself in his study. But 
whenever he did speak to Ellen his tone was particularly gentle 
and his look kind. He sometimes called her “ My little daughter,” 
which always gave Ellen great pleasure ; she would jump at such 
times with double zeal to do any thing he asked her. 

Now drawing went on with new vigour under the eye of her 
master. And many things beside. John took a great deal of pains 
with her in various ways. He made her read to him ; he helped 
her and Alice with their French ; he went with them to Mrs. 
Vawse’s; and even Mr. Humphreys went there too one afternoon 
to tea. How much Ellen enjoyed that afternoon ! They took with 
them a great basket of provisions, for Mrs. Yawse could not be ex- 
pected to entertain so large a party ; and borrowed Jenny Hitch- 
cock’s pony, which with old John and Sharp mounted three of the 
company ; they took turns in walking. Nobody minded that. The 
fine weather, the beautiful mountain-top, the general pleasure, Mr. 
Humphreys’ uncommon spirits and talkableness, the oddity of their 
way of travelling, and of a tea-party up on the “ Cat’s back,” and 
furthermore, the fact that Nancy stayed at home and behaved very 
well the whole time, all together filled Ellen’s cup of happiness, 
for the time, as full as it could hold. She never forgot that after- 
noon. And the ride home was the best of all. The sun was low 
by the time they reached the plain ; long shadows lay across their 
road ; the soft air just stirred the leaves on the branches ; stillness 
and loveliness were over all things ; and down the mountain and 
along the roads through the open country, the whole way, John 
walked at her bridle ; so kind in his care of her, so pleasant in his 
talk to her, teaching her how to sit in the saddle and hold the reins 
and whip, and much more important things too, that Ellen thought 
a pleasanter thing could not be than to ride so. After that they 
took a great many rides, borrowing Jenny’s pony or some other, 
and explored the beautiful country far and near. And almost daily 
John had up Sharp and gave Ellen a regular lesson. She often 
thought, and sometimes looked, what she had once said to him, “ I 
wish I could do something for you , Mr. John;” — but he smiled at 
her and said nothing. 

At last he was gone. And in all the week he had been at home, 
and in many weeks before, no letter had come for Ellen. The 
thought had been kept from weighing upon her by the thousand 
pleasures that filled up every moment of his stay ; she could not 
be sad then, or only for a minute ; hope threw off the sorrow as 
soon as it was felt ; and she forgot how time flew. But when his 
visit was over, and she went back to her old place and her old life 

29 * 


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at her aunt’s, the old feeling came back in greater strength. She 
began again to count the days and the weeks ; to feel the bitter un- 
satisfied longing. Tears would drop down upon her Bible ; tears 
streamed from her eyes when she prayed that God would make her 
mother well and bring her home to her quickly, — oh, quickly ! — 
and little Ellen’s face began to wear once more something of its 
old look. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, 

All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, 

All the dull deep pain, and constant anguish of patience ! 

Longfellow. 

One day in the early part of September, she was standing in 
front of the house at the little wicket that opened on the road. 
With her back against the .open gate, she was gently moving it to 
and fro, half enjoying the weather and the scene, half indulging 
the melancholy mood which drove her from the presence of her 
bustling aunt. The gurgling sound of the brook a few steps off 
was a great deal more soothing to her ear than Miss Fortune’s 
sharp tones. By and by a horseman came in sight at the far end 
of the road, and the brook was forgotten. What made Ellen look 
at him so sharply? Poor child, she was always expecting news. 
At first she could only see that the man rode a white horse ; then, 
as he came nearer, an odd looped-up hat showed itself, — and some- 
thing queer in his hand, — what was it ? who is it ? — The old news- 
man ! Ellen was sure. Yes — she could now see his saddle-bags, and 
the white horse-tail set in a handle with which he was brushing 
away the flies from his horse ; the tin trumpet was in his other 
hand, to blow withal. He was a venerable old figure with all his 
oddities ; clad in a suit of snuff brown, with a neat quiet look about 
him, he and the saddle-bags and the white horse jogged on together 
as if they belonged to nothing else in the world but each other. 
In an ecstasy of fear and hope Ellen watched the pace of the old 
horse to see if it gave any sign of slackening near the gate. Her 
breath came short, she hardly breathed at all, she was trembling 
from head to foot. Would he stop, or was he going on ! Oh, the 
long agony of two minutes ! — He stopped. Ellen went toward 
him. 

“ What little gal is this?” said he. 

“I am Ellen Montgomery, sir,” said Ellen eagerly; — “ Miss 
Fortune’s niece — I live here.” 

“Stop a bit,” said the old man, taking up his saddle-bags, — 


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343 


“ Miss Fortune’s niece, eh ? Well — I believe — as I’ve got some- 
thin’ for her — somethin’ here — aunt well, eh ?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ That’s more than you be, ain’t it?” said he, glancing sideways 
at Ellen’s face. “ How do you know but I’ve got a letter for you 
here, eh ?” 

The colour rushed to that face, and she clasped her hands. 

“No, dear, no,” said he, — “I ha’n’t got any for you — it’s for 
the old lady — there, run in with it, dear.” 

But Ellen knew before she touched it that it was a foreign letter, 
and dashed into the house with it. Miss Fortune coolly sent her 
back to pay the postage. 

When she came in again her aunt was still reading the letter. 
But her look, Ellen felt , was unpromising. She did not venture to 
speak ; expectation was chilled. She stood till Miss Fortune began 
to fold up the paper. 

“ Is there nothing for me ?” she said then timidly. 

“ No.” 

“ Oh, why don’t she write tome!” cried Ellen, bursting into 
tears. 

Miss Fortune stalked about the room without any particular pur- 
pose, as far as could be seen. 

“It is very strange !” said Ellen sorrowfully, — “ I am afraid she 
is worse — does papa say she is worse?” 

“ No.” 

“ Oh, if she had only sent me a message ! I should think she 
might ; oh, I wish she had ! — three words ! — does papa say why she 
don’t write?” 

“No.” 

“ It is very strange !” repeated poor Ellen. 

“ Your father talks of coming home,” said Miss Fortune, after 
a few minutes, during which Ellen had been silently weeping. 

“ Home ! — Then she must be better !” said Ellen with new life ; 
“ does papa say she is better ?” 

“ No.” 

“ But what does he mean ?” said Ellen uneasily ; — “ I don’t see 
what he means ; he doesn’t say she is worse, and lie doesn’t say she 
is better, — what does he say?” 

“ He don’t say much about any thing.” 

“ Does he say when they are coming home ?” 

Miss Fortune mumbled something about “ Spring,” and whisked 
off to the buttery ; Ellen thought no more was to be got out of her. 
She felt miserable. Her father and her aunt both seemed to act 
strangely ; and where to find comfort she scarcely knew. She had 
one day been telling her doubts and sorrows to John. He did not 
try to raise her hopes, but said, “ Troubles will come in this world, 


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Ellie ; the best is to trust them and ourselves to our dear Saviour, 
and let trials drive us to him. Seek to love him more and to be 
patient under his will ; the good Shepherd means nothing but kind- 
ness to any lamb in his flock. — you may be sure of that, Ellie.” 

Ellen remembered his words and tried to follow them now, but 
she could not be “ patient under his will” yet, — not quite. It was 
very hard to be patient in such uncertainty. With swimming eyes 
she turned over her Bible in search of comfort, and found it. Her 
eye lit upon words she knew very well, but that were like the fresh 
sight of a friend’s face for all that, — “ Let not your heart be 
troubled ; ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s 
house are many mansions.” There is no parting there, thought 
little Ellen. She cried a long time ; but she was comforted never- 
theless. The heart that rests on the blessed One who said those 
words can never be quite desolate. 

For several days things went on in the old train, only her aunt, 
she thought, was sometimes rather queer, — not quite as usual in 
her manner toward her. Mr. Van Brunt was not rather but very 
queer ; he scarce spoke or looked at Ellen ; bolted down his food 
and was off without a word ; and even stayed away entirely from 
two or three meals. She saw nobody else. Weather and other 
circumstances prevented her going to the mountain. 

One afternoon she was giving her best attention to a French les- 
son, when she heard herself called. Miss Fortune was in the lower 
kitchen dipping candles. Ellen ran down. 

“ I don’t know what’s got into these candles,” said Miss Fortune. 
— “ I can’t make ’em hang together ; the tallow ain’t good, I guess. 
Where’s the nearest place they keep bees?” 

“ They have got bees at Mrs. Hitchcock’s,” said Ellen. 

“ So they have in Egypt, for any thing I know,” said her aunt; 
— “ one would be about as much good now as t’other. Mrs. Lown- 
des ! — that ain’t far off. Put on your bonnet, Ellen, and run over 
there, and ask her to let me have a little bees- wax. I’ll pay her in 
something she likes best.” 

“Hoes Mrs. Lowndes keep bee-hives?” said Ellen doubtfully. 

“No — she makes the bees-wax herself,” said Miss Fortune, in 
the tone she always took when any body presumed to suppose she 
might be mistaken in any thing. 

“ How much shall I ask for?” said Ellen. 

“Oh, I don’t know — a pretty good piece.” 

Ellen was not very clear what quantity this might mean. How- 
ever she wisely asked no more questions, and set out upon her walk. 
It was hot and disagreeable; just the time of day when the sun 
had most power, and Mrs. Lowndes’ house was about half way on 
the road to Alice’s. It was not a place where Ellen liked to go, 
though the people always made much of her ; she did not fancy 


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345 


them, and regularly kept out of their way when she could. Miss 
Mary Lawson was sitting with Mrs. Lowndes and her daughter 
when Ellen came in and briefly gave her aunt’s message. 

“Bees-wax,” said Mrs. Lowndes, — “well, I don’t know — How 
much does she want?” 

“ I don’t know, ma’am, exactly, she said a pretty good piece.” 

“ What’s it for? do you know, honey?” 

“ I believe it’s to put in some tallow for candles,” said Ellen ; — 
“ the tallow was too soft she said.” 

“ I didn’t know Miss Fortune’s tallow was ever any thing but 
the hardest,” said Sarah Lowndes. 

“ You had better not let your aunt know you’ve told on her, 
Ellen,” remarked Mary Lawson ; “ she won’t thank you.” 

“‘Had she a good lot of taller to make up ?” inquired the mother, 
preparing to cut her bees-wax. 

“ I don’t know, ma’am ; she had a big kettle, but I don’t know 
how full it was.” 

“ You may as well cut a good piece, ma, while you are about it,” 
said the daughter; — “and ask her to let us have a piece of her 
sage cheese, will you ?” 

“ Is it worth while to weigh it ?” whispered Mrs. Lowndes. 

Her daughter answered in the same tone, and Miss Mary joining 
them, a conversation of some length went on over the bees-wax 
which Ellen could not hear. The tones of the speakers became 
lower and lower ; till at length her own name and an incautious 
sentence were spoken more distinctly and reached her. 

“ Shouldn’t you think Miss Fortune might put a black ribbon at 
least on her bonnet?” 

“ Any body but her would.” 

“ Hush ! ” They whispered again under breath. 

The words entered Ellen’s heart like cold iron. She did not 
move, hand or foot ; she sat motionless with pain and fear, yet what 
she feared she dared not think. When the bees-wax was given her 
she rose up from her chair and stood gazing into Mrs. Lowndes’ 
face as if she had lost her senses. 

“ My goodness, child, how you look !” said that lady. “ What 
ails you, honey?” 

“ Ma’am,” said Ellen, — “what was that you said, about ” 

“About what, dear?” said Mrs. Lowndes, with a startled look 
at the others. 

“ About — a ribbon — ” said Ellen, struggling to get the words 
out of white lips. 

“ My goodness !” said the other ; — “ did you ever hear any thing 
like that? — I didn’t say nothing about a ribbon, dear.” 

“ Do you suppose her aunt ha’n’t told her?” said Miss Mary in 
an under tone. 


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u Told me what?” cried Ellen ; — “ Oh, what? — what?” 

“ I wish I was a thousand miles off !” said Mrs. Lowndes ; — “ I 
don’t know, dear — I don’t know what it is — Miss Alice knows.” 

“ Yes, ask Miss Alice,” said Mary Lawson ; — “ she knows better 
than we do.” 

Ellen looked doubtfully from one to the other; then as “ GrO ask 
Miss Alice,” was repeated on all sides, she caught up her bonnet 
and flinging the bees-wax from her hand darted out of the house. 
Those she had left looked at each other a minute in silence. 

“Ain’t that too bad now!” exclaimed Mrs. Lowndes, crossing 
the room to shut the door. “ But what could I say ?” 

“ Which way did she go ?” 

“ I don’t know I am sure — I had no head to look, or any thing 
else. I wonder if I had ought to ha’ told her. — But I couldn’t 
ha’ done it.” ' 

“ Just look at her bees-wax !” said Sarah Lowndes. 

“ She will kill herself if she runs up the mountain at that rate,” 
said Mary Lawson. 

They all made a rush to the door to look after her. 

“ She ain’t in sight,” said Mrs. Lowndes ; — “ if she’s gone the 
way to the Nose she’s got as far as them big poplars already, or 
she’d be some where this side of ’em where we could see her.” 

“ You hadn’t ought to ha’ let her go, ’ma, in all this sun,” said 
Miss Lowndes. 

“I declare,” said Mrs. Lowndes, “she scared me so I hadn’t 
three idees left in my head. I wish I knew where she was, though, 
poor little soul !” 

Ellen was far on her way to the mountain, pressed forward by a 
fear that knew no stay of heat or fatigue ; they were little to her 
that day. She saw nothing on her way ; all within and without 
were swallowed up in that one feeling ; yet she dared not think 
what it was she feared. She put that by. Alice knew, Alice would 
tell her ; on that goal her heart fixed, to that she pressed on ; but 
oh, the while, what a cloud was gathering over her spirit, and grow- 
ing darker and darker. Her hurry of mind and hurry of body 
made each other worse ; it must be so ; and when she at last ran 
round the corner of the house and burst in at the glass door she 
was in a frightful state. 

Alice started up and faced her as she came in, but with a look 
that stopped Ellen short. She stood still ; the colour in her cheeks, 
as her eyes read Alice’s, faded quite away ; words and the power 
to speak them were gone together. Alas ! the need to utter them 
was gone too. Alice burst into tears and held out her arms, say- 
ing only, “ My poor child !” Ellen reached her arms, and strength 
and spirit seemed to fail there. Alice thought she had fainted ; she 
laid her on the sofa, called Margery, and tried the usual things, 


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347 


weeping bitterly berself as sbe did so. It was not fainting how- 
ever ; Ellen’s senses soon came back; but she seemed like a person 
stunned with a great blow, and Alice wished grief had had any 
other effect upon her. It lasted for days. A kind of stupor hung 
over her ; tears did not come ; the violent strain of every nerve and 
feeling seemed to have left her benumbed. She would sleep long 
heavy sleeps the greater part of the time, and seemed to have no 
power to do any thing else. 

Her adopted sister watched her constantly, and for those days 
lived but to watch her. She had heard all Ellen’s story from 
Mary Lawson and Mr. Yan Brunt; who had both been to the 
parsonage, one on Mrs. Lowndes’ part, the other on his own, to ask 
about her ; and she dreaded that a violent fit of illness might be 
brought on by all Ellen had undergone. She was mistaken, how- 
ever. Ellen was not ill ; but her whole mind and body bowed 
under the weight of the blow that had come upon her. As the 
first stupor wore off there were indeed more lively signs of grief ; 
she would weep till she wept her eyes out, and that often, but it 
was very quietly ; no passionate sobbing, no noisy crying ; sorrow 
had taken too strong hold to be struggled with, and Ellen meekly 
bowed her head to it. Alice saw this with the greatest alarm. 
She had refused to let her go back to her aunt’s ; it was impossible 
to do otherwise ; yet it may be that Ellen would have been better there. 
The busy industry to which she would have been forced at home 
might have roused her ; as it was, nothing drew her, and nothing 
could be found to draw her, from her own thoughts. Her interest 
in every thing seemed to be gone. Books had lost their charm. 
Walks and drives and staying at home were all one, except indeed 
that she rather liked best the latter. Appetite failed ; her cheek 
grew colourless ; and Alice began to fear that if a stop were not 
soon put to this gradual sinking it would at last end with her life. 
But all her efforts were without fruit ; and the winter was a 
sorrowful one not to Ellen alone. 

As it wore on, there came to be one thing in which Ellen again 
took pleasure, and that was her Bible. She used to get alone or 
into a corner with it, and turn the leaves over and over ; looking 
out its gentle promises and sweet comforting words to the weak 
and the sorrowing. She loved to read about Christ, — all he said 
and did ; all his kindness to his people and tender care of them ; 
the love shown them here and the joys prepared for them hereafter. 
She began to cling more to that one unchangeable friend from 
whose love neither life nor death can sever those that believe in 
him ; and her heart, tossed and shaken as it had been, began, to 
take rest again in that happy resting-place with stronger affection 
and even with greater joy than ever before. Yet for all that, this 
joy often kept company with bitter weeping ; the stirring of any 


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thing like pleasure roused sorrow up afresh ; and though Ellen’s 
look of sadness grew less dark, Alice could not see that her face 
was at all less white and thin. She never spoke of her mother 
after once hearing when and where she had died ; she never hinted 
at her loss, except exclaiming in an agony, “ I shall get no more 
letters !” and Alice dared not touch upon what the child seemed to 
avoid so carefully ; though Ellen sometimes wept on her bosom, 
and often sat for hours still and silent with her head in her lap. 

The time drew nigh when John was expected home for the 
holidays. In the mean while they had had many visits from other 
friends. Mr. Yan Brunt had come several times, enough to set 
the whole neighbourhood a wondering if they had only known it ; 
his good old mother oftener still. Mrs. Yawse as often as possible. 
Miss Fortune once ; and that because, as she said to herself, 
“ every body would be talking about what was none of their 
business if she didn’t.” As neither she nor Ellen knew in the 
least what to say to each other, the visit was rather a dull one, 
spite of all Alice could do. Jenny Hitchcock and the Huffs and 
the Dennisons, and others, came now and then ; but Ellen did not 
like to see any of them all but Mrs. Yawse. Alice longed for her 
brother. 

He came at last, just before New Year’s. It was the middle of 
a fine afternoon, and Alice and her father had gone in the sleigh 
to Carra-carra. Ellen had chosen to stay behind, but Margery did 
not know this, and of course did not tell John. After paying a 
visit to her in the kitchen, he had come back to the empty sitting- 
room, and was thoughtfully walking up and down the floor, when 
the door of Alice’s room slowly opened and Ellen appeared. It 
was never her way^ when she could help it, to show violent feeling 
before other people ; so she had been trying to steel herself to meet 
John without crying, and now came in with her little grave face 
prepared not to give way. His first look had like to overset it 
all. 

“ Elbe !” said he ; — “ I thought everybody was gone. My dear 
Ellie ! — ” 

Ellen could hardly stand the tone of these three words, and she 
bore with the greatest difficulty the kiss that followed them ; it 
took but a word or two more, and a glance at the old look and 
smile, to break down entirely all her guard. According to her 
usual fashion she was rushing away ; but John held her fast, and 
though gently drew her close to him. 

“ I will not let you forget that I am your brother, Ellie,” said 
he. 

Ellen hid her face on his shoulder, and cried as if she had never 
cried before. 

“ Ellie,” said he after a while, speaking low and tenderly, “the 


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349 


Bible says, ‘We have known and believed the love that God hath 
toward us ;’ — have you remembered and believed this lately ?” 

Ellen did not answer. 

“ Have' you remembered that God loves every sinner that has 
believed in his dear Son ? — and loves them so well that he will let 
nothing come near them to harm them ? — and loves them never 
better than when he sends bitter trouble on them ? It is wonder- 
ful ! but it is true. Have you thought of this, Ellie?” 

She shook her head. 

“ It is not in anger he does it ; — it is not that he has forgotten 
you ; — it is not that he is careless of your trembling little heart, — 
never, never ! If you are his child, all is done in love and shall 
work good for you ; and if we often cannot see how, it is because 
we are weak and foolish, and can see hut a very little way.” 

Ellen listened, with her face hid on his shoulder. 

“ Ho you love Christ, Ellen?” 

She nodded, weeping afresh. 

“ Do you love him less since he has brought you into this great 
sorrow ?” 

“No,” sobbed Ellen; — “more.” 

He drew her closer to his breast and was silent a little while. 

“ I am very glad to hear you say that ! — then all will be well. 
And haven’t you the best reason to think that all is well with your 
dear mother ?’ ’ 

Ellen almost shrieked. Her mother’s name had not been spoken 
before her in a great while, and she could hardly bear to hear it 
now. Her whole frame quivered with hysterical sobs. 

“ Hush, Ellie !” said John, in a tone that, low as it was, some- 
how found its way through all her agitation, and calmed her like a 
spell ; — “ have you not good reason to believe that all is well with 
her?” 

“ Oh, yes ! — oh, yes l” 

“ She loved and trusted him too ; and now she is with him — 
she has reached that bright home where there is no more sin, nor 
sorrow, nor death.” 

“Nor parting either,” sobbed Ellen, whose agitation was ex- 
cessive. 

“ Nor parting ! — and though we are parted from them, it is but 
for a little ; let us watch and keep our garments clean, and soon 
we shall be all together, and have done with tears for ever. She 
has done with them now- — Hid you hear from her again ?” 

“ Oh, no — not a word !” 

“ That is a hard trial. — But in it all, believe, dear Ellie, the love 
that God hath toward us ; — remember that our dear Saviour is near 
us, and feels for us, and is the same at all times. — And don’t cry 
so, Ellie.” 


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He kissed her once or twice, and begged her to calm herself. 
For it seemed as if Ellen’s very heart was flowing away in her 
tears ; yet they were gentler and softer far than at the beginning. 
The conversation had been a great relief. The silence between her 
and Alice on the thing always in her mind, a silence neither of 
them dared to break, had grown painful. The spell was taken off ; 
and though at first Ellen’s tears knew no measure, she was easier 
even then ; as John soothed her and went on with his kind talk, 
gradually leading it away from their first subject to other things, 
she grew not only calm but more peaceful at heart than months 
had seen her. She was quite herself again before Alice came 
home. 

“You have done her good already,” exclaimed Alice as soon as 
Ellen was out of the room ; — “ I knew you would ; I saw it in her 
face as soon as I came in.” 

“It is time,” said her brother. “ She is a dear little thing !” 

The next day, in the middle of the morning, Ellen, to her great 
surprise, saw Sharp brought before the door with the side-saddle 
on, and Mr. John carefully looking to the girth and shortening the 
stirrup. 

“Why, Alice,” she exclaimed, — “what is Mr. John going to 
do?” 

“I don’t know, Ellie, I am sure; he does queer things some- 
times. What makes you ask?” 

Before she could answer he opened the door. 

“ Come, Ellen — go and get ready. Bundle up well, for it is 
rather frosty. Alice, has she a pair of gloves that are warm 
enough? Lend her yours, and I’ll see if I can find some at Thirl- 
wall.” 

Ellen thought she would rather not go ; to anybody else she 
would have said so. Half a minute she stood still — then went to 
put on her things. 

“ Alice, you will be ready by the time we get back ? — in half an 
hour.” 

Ellen had an excellent lesson, and her master took care it should 
not be an easy one. She came back looking as she had not done 
all winter. Alice was not quite ready ; while waiting for her John 
went to the bookcase and took down the first volume of “ Bollin’s 
Ancient History;” and giving it to Ellen, said he would talk with 
her to-morrow about the first twenty pages. The consequence was, 
the hour and a half of their absence instead of being moped away 
was spent in hard study. A pair of gloves was bought at Thirl- 
wall ; Jenny Hitchcock’s pony was sent for; and after that, every 
day when the weather would at all do they took a long ride. By 
degrees reading and drawing and all her studies were added to the 
history, till Ellen’s time was well filled with business again. Alice 


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351 


had endeavoured to bring this about before, but fruitlessly. What 
she asked of her Ellen indeed tried to do ; what John told her was 
done. She grew a different creature. Appetite came back ; the 
colour sprang again to her cheek ; hope — meek and sober as it was, — 
relighted her eye. In her eagerness to please and satisfy her teacher 
her whole soul was given to the performance of whatever he wished 
her to do. The effect was all that he looked for. 

The second evening after he came, John called Ellen to his side, 
saying he had something he wanted to read to her. It was be- 
fore candles were brought, but the room was full of light from the 
blazing wood fire. Ellen glanced at his book as she came to the 
sofa ; it was a largish volume in a black leather cover a good deal 
worn ; it did not look at all interesting. 

“ What is it?” she asked. 

“ It is called,” said John, “‘The Pilgrim’s Progress from this 
world to a better.’ ” 

Ellen thought it did not sound at all interesting. She had never 
been more mistaken in her life, and that she found almost as soon 
as he begun. Her attention was nailed ; the listless, careless mood 
in which she sat down was changed for one of rapt delight ; she 
devoured every word that fell from the reader’s lips ; indeed, they 
were given their fullest effect by a very fine voice and singularly 
fine reading. Whenever any thing might not be quite clear to 
Ellen, John stopped to make it so ; and with his help, and without 
it, many a lesson went home. Next day she looked a long time for 
the book ; it could not be found ; she was forced to wait until even- 
ing. Then to her great joy, it was brought out again, and John 
asked her if she wished to hear some more of it. After that, every 
evening while he was at home they spent an hour with the “ Pil- 
grim.” Alice would leave her work and come to the sofa too ; and 
with her head on her brother’s shoulder, her hand in his, and 
Ellen’s face leaning against his other arm, that was the common 
way they placed themselves to see and hear. No words can tell 
Ellen’s enjoyment of those readings. They made her sometimes 
laugh and sometimes cry ; they had much to do in carrying on the 
cure which John’s wisdom and kindness had begun. 

They came to the place where Christian loses his burden at 
the cross ; and as he stood looking and weeping, three shining 
ones came to him. The first said to him, “ Thy sins be forgiven 
thee;” the second stripped him of his rags and clothed him 
with a change of raiment ; the third also set a mark on his fore- 
head. 

John explained what was meant by the rags and the change of 
raiment. 

“ And the mark in his forehead ?” said Ellen. 

“That is the mark of God’s children — the change wrought in 


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them by the Holy Spirit, — the change that makes them different 
from others, and different from their old selves.” 

“ Do all Christians have it?” 

“ Certainly. None can be a Christian without it.” 

“ But how can one tell whether one has it or no ?” said Ellen, 
very gravely. 

“ Carry your heart and life to the Bible and see how they agree. 
The Bible gives a great many signs and descriptions by which 
Christians may know themselves, — know both what they are and 
what they ought to be. If you find your own feelings and man- 
ner of life at one with these Bible words, you may hope that the 
Holy Spirit has changed you and set his mark upon you.” 

“I wish you would tell me of one of those places,” said Ellen. 

“The Bible is full of them. 1 To them that believe Christ is 
precious ,’ — there is one. 1 If ye love me, keep my commandments 
— ‘ He that saith he abideth in him ought himself also so to walk 
even as he walked — ‘ 0 how love I thy laic!' The Bible is full 
of them, Ellie ; but you have need to ask for great help when you 
go to try yourself by them ; the heart is deceitful.” 

Ellen looked sober all the rest of the evening, and the next day 
she pondered the matter a good deal. 

“ I think I am changed,” she said to herself at last. “ I didn’t 
use to like to read the Bible, and now I do very much ; — I never 
liked praying in old times, and now, oh, what should I do without 
it ! — I didn’t love Jesus at all, but I am sure I do now. I don’t 
keep his commandments, but I do try to keep them ; — I must be 
changed a little. Oh, I wish mamma had known it before .” 

Weeping with mixed sorrow and thankful joy, Ellen bent her 
head upon her little Bible to pray that she might be more changed ; 
and then, as she often did, raised the cover to look at the texts in 
the beloved handwriting. 

“ I love them that love me, and they that seek me early shall 
find me.” 

Ellen’s tears were blinding her. “ That has come true,” she 
thought. 

“ I will be a God to thee and to thy seed after thee.” 

“That has come true too!” she said, almost in surprise, — “ and 
mamma believed it would.” — And then, as by a flash, came back 
to her mind the time it was written ; she remembered how when 
it was done her mother’s head had sunk upon the open page ; she 
seemed to see again the thin fingers tightly clasped ; — she had not 
understood it then; she did now! “She was praying for me,” 
thought Ellen, — “she was praying for me! she believed that 
would come true.” 

The book was dashed down, and Ellen fell upon her knees in a 
perfect agony of weeping. 


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Even this, when she was calm again, served to steady her mind. 
There seemed to be a link of communion between her mother and 
her that was wanting before. The promise, written and believed 
in by the one, realized and rejoiced in by the other, was a dear 
something in common, though one had in the mean while removed 
to heaven, and the other was still a lingerer on the earth. Ellen 
bound the words upon her heart. 

Another time, when they came to the last scene of Christian’s 
journey, Ellen’s tears ran very fast. John asked if he should 
pass it over? if it distressed her? She said, oh, no, it did not 
distress her; she wanted him to go on; — and he went on, though 
himself much distressed, and Alice was near as bad as Ellen. But 
the next evening, to his surprise, Ellen begged that before he went 
on to the second part he would read that piece over again. And 
when he lent her the book, with only the charge that she should 
not go further than he had been, she pored over that scene with 
untiring pleasure till she almost had it by heart. In short, never 
was a child more comforted and contented with a book than Ellen 
was with the “Pilgrim’s Progress.” That was a blessed visit of 
John’s. Alice said he had come like a sunbeam into the house ; she 
dreaded to think what would be when he went away. 

She wrote him, however, when he had been gone a few weeks, 
that his will seemed to carry all before it, present or absent. Ellen 
went on steadily mending ; at least she did not go back any. They 
were keeping up their rides, also their studies, most diligently ; 
Ellen was untiring in her efforts to do whatever he had wished her, 
and was springing forward, Alice said, in her improvement. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


I keep his house, and I wash, wring, brew, bake, scour, dress meat, and make 
the beds, and do all myself.— S hakspeare. 


The spring had come ; and Alice and Ellen were looking forward 
to pleasanter rides and walks after the sun should have got a little 
warmth and the snow should be gone ; when one morning in the 
early part of March Mr. Van Brunt made his appearance. Miss 
Fortune was not well, and had sent him to beg that Ellen would 
come back to her. He was sorry, he said ; — he knew Ellen was in 
the best place; but her aunt wanted her, and “he s’ posed she’d 
have to go.” He did not know what was the matter with Miss 
Fortune; it was a little of one thing and a little of another; “he 
s’ posed she’d overdid, and it was a wonder, for he didn’t know she 
x 30 * 


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could do it. She thought she was as tough as a piece of shoe- 
leather, but even that could be wore out.” 

Ellen looked blank. However, she hurriedly set herself to get 
her things together, and with Alice’s help in half an hour she was 
ready to go. The parting was hard. They held each other fast a 
good while, and kissed each other many times without speaking. 

“Good-by, dear Ellie,” whispered Alice at last, — “I’ll come 
and see you soon. Bemember what John said when he went 
away.” 

Ellen did not trust herself to speak. She pulled herself away 
from Alice, and turned to Mr. Van Brunt, saying by her manner 
that she was ready ; he took her bundle and they went out of the 
house together. 

Ellen made a manful effort all the way down the hill to stifle the 
tears that were choking her. She knew they would greatly disturb 
her companion, and she did succeed though with great difficulty in 
keeping them back. Luckily for her, he said hardly any thing 
during the whole walk ; she could not have borne to answer a 
question. It was no fault of Mr. Van Brunt’s that he was so 
silent ; he was beating his brains the whole way to think of some- 
thing it would do to say, and could not suit himself. His single 
remark was, “ that it was like to be a fine spring for the maple, and 
he guessed they’d make a heap of sugar.” 

When they reached the door he told her she would find her aunt 
up stairs, and himself turned off to the barn. Ellen stopped a 
minute upon the threshold to remember the last time she had 
crossed it, — and the first time ; how changed every thing now ! — 
and the thought came, was this now to be her home for ever ? She 
had need again to remember John’s words. When bidding her 
good-by he had said, “ My little pilgrim, I hope you will keep the 
straight road, and win the praise of the servant who was faithful 
over a few things.” “ I will try !” thought poor Ellen ; and then 
she passed through the kitchen and went up to her own room. 
Here, without stopping to think, she took off her things, gave one 
strange look at the old familiar place and her trunk in the corner, 
fell on her knees for one minute, and then went to her aunt’s 
room. 

“Come in!” cried Miss Fortune when Ellen had knocked. 
“ Well, Ellen, there you are. I am thankful it is you ; I was 
afraid it might be Mimy Lawson or Sarah Lowndes, or some of the 
rest of the set ; I know they’ll all come scampering here as soon as 
they hear I’m laid up.” 

“Are you very sick, aunt Fortune?” said Ellen. 

“ La ! no, child ; I shall be up again to-morrow ; but I felt queer 
this morning somehow, and I thought I’d try lying down. I ex- 
pect I’ve caught some cold.” 


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355 


There was no doubt of this, but this was not all. Besides catch- 
ing cold, and doing her best to bring it about, Miss Fortune had 
overtasked her strength ; and by dint of economy, housewifery, 
and smartness , had brought on herself the severe punishment of 
lying idle and helpless for a much longer time than she at first 
reckoned on. 

“ What can I do for you, aunt Fortune?” said Ellen. 

“ Oh, nothing, as I know,” said Miss Fortune, — “only let me 
alone and don’t ask me any thing, and keep people out of the house. 
Mercy ! my head feels as if it would go crazy ! Ellen, look here,” 
said she, raising herself on her elbow, — “I won’t have any body 
come into this house, — if I lie here till doomsday, I won’t ! Now, 
you mind me. I ain’t a going to have Mirny Lawson, nor nobody 
else, poking all round into every hole and corner, and turning 
every cheese upside down to see what’s under it. There ain’t one 
of ’em too good for it, and they shan’t have a chance. They’ll be 
streaking here, a dozen of ’em, to help take care of the house; 
but I don’t care what becomes of the house — I won’t have any 
body in it. Promise me you won’t let Mr. Van Brunt bring any 
one here to help ; I know I can trust you to do what I tell you ; 
promise me !” 

Ellen promised, a good deal gratified at her aunt’s last words; 
and once more asked if she could do any thing for her. 

“ Oh, I don’t know !” said Miss Fortune, flinging herself back 
on her pillow; — “ I don’t care what you do, if you only keep the 
house clear. There’s the clothes in the basket under the table 
down stairs — you might begin to iron ’em ; they’re only rough 
dry. But don’t come asking me about any thing ; I can’t bear it. 
— Ellen, don’t let a soul go into the buttery except yourself. — And 
Ellen ! I don’t care if you make me a little catnip tea ; — the cat- 
nip’s up in the store-room, — the furthest door in the back attic — 
here’s the keys. Don’t go fussing with any thing else there.” 

Ellen thought the prospect before her rather doleful when she 
reached the kitchen. It was in order, to be sure, and clean ; but 
it looked as if the mistress was away. The fire had gone out, the 
room was cold ; even so little a matter as catnip tea seemed a thing 
far off and hard to come by. While she stood looking at the great 
logs in the fireplace, which she could hardly move, and thinking it 
was rather a dismal state of things, in came Mr. Van Brunt with 
his good-natured face, and wanted to know if he could do anything 
for her. The very room seemed more comfortable as soon as his 
big figure was in it. He set about kindling the fire forthwith, 
while Ellen went up to the store-room. A well-filled store-room ! 
Among other things, there hung at least a dozen bunches of dried 
herbs from one of the rafters. Ellen thought she knew catnip, 
but after smelling of two or three she became utterly puzzled and 


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was fain to carry a leaf of several kinds down to Mr. Van Brunt 
to find out which was which. When she came down again she 
found he had hung on the kettle for her, and swept up the hearth ; 
so Ellen, wisely thinking it best to keep busy, put the ironing 
blanket on the table, and folded the clothes, and set the irons to 
the fire. By this time the kettle boiled. How to make catnip tea 
Ellen did not exactly know, but supposed it must follow the same 
rules as black tea, in the making of which she felt herself very 
much at home. So she put a pinch or two of catnip leaves into 
the pot, poured a little water on them, and left it to draw. Mean- 
while came in kind Mr. Van Brunt with an armful or two of small 
short sticks for the fire, which Ellen could manage. 

“ I wish I could stay here and take care of you all the while,” 
said he ; “ but I’ll be round. If you want any thing you must 
come to the door and holler.” 

Ellen began to thank him. 

“ Just don’t say any thing about that,” said he, moving his 
hands as if he were shaking her thanks out of them ; “I’d back 
all the wood you could burn every day for the pleasure of having 
you hum again, if I didn’t know you was better where you was; 
but I can’t help that. Now, who am I going to get to stay with 
you ? Who would you like to have.” 

“Nobody, if you please, Mr. Van Brunt,” said Ellen; “aunt 
Fortune don’t wish it, and I had rather not, indeed.” 

He stood up and looked at her in amazement. 

“ Why, you don’t mean to say,” said he, “ that you are thinking, 
or she is thinking, you can get along here alone without help ?” 

“ I’ll get along somehow,” said Ellen. “ Never mind, please let 
me, Mr. Van Brunt ; it would worry aunt Fortune very much to 
have any body ; don’t say any thing about it.” 

“Worry her!'’ said he; and he muttered something Ellen did 
not quite understand, about “ bringing the old woman to reason.” 

However he went off for the present ; and Ellen filled up her 
tea-pot and carried it up stairs. Her old grandmother was awake ; 
before, when Ellen was in the room, she had been napping ; now 
she showed the greatest delight at seeing her ; fondled her, kissed 
her, cried over her, and finally insisted on getting up directly 
and going down stairs. Ellen received and returned her caresses 
with great tenderness, and then began to help her to rise and 
dress. 

“Yes, do,” said Miss Fortune; “I shall have a little better 
chance of sleeping. My stars! Ellen, what do you call this?” 

“ Isn’t it catnip?” said Ellen, alarmed. 

“ Catnip ! it tastes of nothing but the teakettle. It’s as weak 
as dish-water. Take it down and make some more. How much 
did you put in ? you want a good double handful, stalks and all ; 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 357 

make it strong. I can’t drink such stuff as that. I think if I 
could get into a sweat I should be better.” 

Ellen went down, established her grandmother in her old corner, 
and made some more tea. Then, her irons being hot, she began 
to iron ; doing double duty at the same time, for Mrs. Montgomery 
had one of her talking fits on, and it was necessary to hear and 
answer a great many things. Presently the first visitor appeared 
in the shape of Nancy. 

“ Well, Ellen !” said she; “ so Miss Fortune is really sick for 
once, and you are keeping house. Ain’t you grand !” 

“ I don’t feel very grand,” said Ellen. “I don’t know what is 
the matter with these clothes; I cannot make ’em look smooth.” 

“ Irons ain’t hot,” said Nancy. 

“ Yes they are, too hot. I’ve scorched a towel already.” 

“ My goodness, Ellen ! I guess you have. If Miss Fortune was 
down you’d get it. Why, they’re bone dry !” said Nancy, plunging 
her hand into the basket ; — “ you haven’t sprinkled ’em, have you ?” 

“ To be sure,” said Ellen, with an awakened face, “ I forgot 
it !” 

“Here, get out of the way, Til do it for you,” said Nancy, 
rolling up her sleeves and pushing Ellen from the table ; “ you just 
get me a bowl of water, will you? and we’ll have ’em done in no 
time. Who’s a coming to help you?” 

“ Nobody.” 

“ Nobody ! — you poor chicken ; do you think you’re a going to 
do all the work of the house yourself?” 

“No,” said Ellen, “ but I can do a good deal, and the rest will 
have to go.” 

“ You ain’t going to do no such thing ; I’ll stay myself.” 

“ No you can’t, Nancy,” said Ellen, quietly. 

“ I guess I will if I’ve a mind to. I should like to know how 
you’d help it; Miss Fortune’s abed.” 

“I could help it though,” said Ellen; “but I am sure you 
won’t when I ask you not.” 

“ I’ll do any thing you please,” said Nancy, “ if you’ll get Miss 
Fortune to let me stay. Come do, Ellen ! It will be splendid ; and 
I’ll help you finely, and I won’t bother you neither. Come! go 
ask her; if you don’t I will.” 

“ I can’t, Nancy ; she don’t want any body ; and it worries her 
to talk to her. I can’t go and ask her.” 

Nancy impatiently flung down the cloth she was sprinkling and 
ran up stairs. In a few minutes she came down with a triumphant 
face and bade Ellen go up to her aunt. 

“ Ellen,” said Miss Fortune, “ if I let Nancy stay will you take 
care of the keys, and- keep her out of the buttery?” 

“ I’ll try to, ma’am, as well as I can.” 


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“I’d as lief have her as anybody,” said Miss Fortune, “if 
she’d behave ; — she was with me a little in the winter ; she is 
smart and knows the ways ; — if I was sure she would behave her, 
self, but I am afraid she will go rampaging about the house like 
a wild cat.” 

“I think I could prevent that,” said Ellen, who, to say truth, 
was willing to have any body come to share what she felt would 



be a very great burden. “ She knows I could tell Mr. Van Brunt 
if she didn’t do right, and she would be afraid of that.” 

“Well,” said Miss Fortune, disconsolately, “let her stay then. 
Oh, dear, to lie here ! but tell her if she don’t.do just what you tell 
her, I’ll have Mr. Van Brunt turn her out by the ears. And don’t 


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let her come near me, for she drives me mad. And, Ellen ! put 
the keys in your pocket. Have you got a pocket in that 
dress?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“ Put ’em in there and don’t take ’em out. Now go.” 

Nancy agreed to the conditions with great glee ; and the little 
housekeeper felt her mind a good deal easier; for though Nancy 
herself was somewhat of a charge, she was strong and willing and 
ready, and if she liked any body liked Ellen. Mr. Van Brunt pri- 
vately asked Ellen if she chose to have Nancy stay ; and told her 
if she gave her any trouble to let him know, and he would make 
short work with her. The young lady herself also had a hint on 
the subject. 

“I’ll tell you what,” said Nancy, when this business was settled, 
— “we’ll let the men go off to Miss Van Brunt’s to meals; we’ll 
have enough to do without ’em. That’s how Miss Fortune has 
fixed herself, — she would have Sam and Johnny in to board ; they 
never used to, you know, afore this winter.” 

“ The men may go,” said Ellen, “ but I had a great deal rather 
Mr. Van Brunt would stay than not, — if we can only manage to 
cook things for him ; we should have to do it at any rate for 
ourselves, and for grandma.” 

“ Well — I ain’t as fond of him as all that,” said Nancy, “ but it’ll 
have to be as you like I suppose. We’ll feed him somehow.” 

Mr. Van Brunt came in to ask if they had any thing in the 
house for supper. Ellen told him “plenty,” and would have him 
come in just as usual. There was nothing to do but to make tea ; 
cold meat and bread and butter and cheese were all in the buttery ; 
so that evening went off very quietly. 

When she came down the next morning the fire was burning 
nicely, and the kettle on and singing. Not Nancy’s work ; Mr. 
Van Brunt had slept in the kitchen, whether on the table, the 
floor, or the chairs, was best known to himself ; and before going 
to his work had left every thing he could think of ready done to 
her hand ; wood for the fire, pails of water brought from the 
spout, and some matters in the lower kitchen got out of the way. 
Ellen stood warming herself at the blaze, when it suddenly darted 
into her head that it was milking time. In another minute she 
had thrown open the door and was running across the chip-yard to 
the barn. There, in the old place, were all her old friends, both 
four-legged and two-legged ; and with great delight she found 
Dolly had a fine calf and Streaky another superb one, brindled just 
like herself. Ellen longed to get near enough to touch their little 
innocent heads, but it was impossible ; and recollecting the busi- 
ness on her hands she too danced away. 

“ Whew !” said Nancy, when Ellen told her of the new inmates 


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of the barn-yard ; — “ there’ll be work to do ! Get your milk-pans 
ready, Ellen ; — in a couple of weeks we’ll be making butter.” 

“ Aunt Fortune will be well by that time, I hope,” said Ellen. 

“She won’t then, so you may just make up your mind to it. 
Dr. Gibson was to see her yesterday forenoon, and he stopped at 
Miss Lowndes on his way back ; and he said it was a chance if she 
got up again in a month and more. So that’s what it is, you see.” 

“ A month and more.” It was all that. Miss Fortune was not 
dangerously ill ; but part of the time in a low nervous fever, part 
of the time encumbered with other ailments, she lay from week to 
week ; bearing her confinement as ill as possible, and making it as 
disagreeable and burdensome as possible for Ellen to attend upon 
her. Those were weeks of trial. Ellen’s patience and principle 
and temper were all put to the proof. She had no love, in the first 
place, for household work, and now her whole time was filled up 
with it. Studies could not be thought of. Reading was only to 
be had by mere snatches. Walks and rides were at an end. Often 
when already very tired she had to run up and down stairs for her 
aunt, or stand and bathe her face and hands with vinegar, or read 
the paper to her when Miss Fortune declared she was so nervous 
she should fly out of her skin if she didn’t hear something besides 
the wind. And very often when she was not wanted up stairs, her 
old grandmother would beg her to come and read to her , — perhaps 
at the very moment when Ellen was busiest. Ellen did her best. 
Miss Fortune never could be put off ; her old mother sometimes 
could, with a kiss and a promise ; but not always ; and then, rather 
than she should fret, Ellen would leave every thing and give half 
an hour to soothing and satisfying her. She loved to do this at 
other times ; now it was sometimes burdensome. Nancy could not 
help her at all in these matters, for neither Miss Fortune nor the 
old lady would let her come near them. Besides all this there was 
a measure of care constantly upon Ellen’s mind ; she felt charged 
with the welfare of all about the house ; and under the effort to 
meet the charge, joined to the unceasing bodily exertion, she grew 
thin and pale. She was tired with Nancy’s talk ; she longed to be 
reading and studying again ; she longed, oh, how she longed ! for 
Alice’s and John’s company again; and it was no wonder if she 
sometimes cast very sad longing looks further back still. Now and 
then an old fit of weeping would come. But Ellen remembered 
John’s words; and often in the midst of her work, stopping short 
with a sort of pang of sorrow and weariness, and the difficulty of 
doing right, she would press her hands together and say to herself, 
“ I will try to be a good pilgrim !” Her morning hour of prayer 
was very precious now ; and her Bible grew more and more dear. 
Little Ellen found its words a mighty refreshment ; and often when 
reading it she loved to recall what Alice had said at this and the 


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other place, and John, and Mr. Marshman, and before them her 
mother. The passages about heaven, which she well remembered 
reading to her one particular morning, became great favourites ; 
they were joined with her mother in Ellen’s thoughts; and she 
used to go over them till she nearly knew them by heart. 

“What do you keep reading that for, the whole time?” said 
Nancy one day. 

“ Because I like to,” said Ellen. 

“ Well, if you do, you’re the first one ever I saw that did.” 

“ Oh, Nancy !” said Ellen ; — “ your grandma ?” 

“ Well she does I believe,” said Nancy, — “ for she’s always at 
it ; but all the rest of the folks that ever I saw are happy to get it 
out of their hands, /know. They think they must read a little, 
and so they do, and they are too glad if something happens to 
break ’em olf. You needn’t tell me ; I’ve seen ’em.” 

“ I wish you loved it, Nancy,” said Ellen. 

“ Well, what do you love it for ? come, let’s hear ; maybe you’ll 
convert me.” 

“ I love it for a great many reasons,” said Ellen, who had some 
difficulty in speaking of what she felt Nancy could not understand. 

“ Well — I ain’t any wiser yet.” 

“ I like to read it because I want to go to heaven, and it tells 
me how.” 

“ But what’s the use ?” said Nancy ; — “ you ain’t going to die 
yet; you are too young; you’ve time enough.” 

“ Oh, Nancy ! — little John Dolan, and Eleanor Parsons, and 
Mary Huff, — all younger than you and I ; how can you say so?” 

“Well,” said Nancy, — “at any rate, that ain’t reading it 
because you love it; — it’s because you must, like other folks.” 

“That’s only one of my reasons,” said Ellen, hesitating and 
speaking gravely ; — “ I like to read about the Saviour, and what he 
has done for me, and what a friend he will be to me, and how he 
forgives me. I had rather have the Bible, Nancy, than all the 
other books in the world.” 

“ That ain’t saying much,” said Nancy; — “but how come you 
to be so sure you are forgiven ?” 

“ Because the Bible says, £ He that believeth on him shall not 
be ashamed,’ and I believe in him ; — and that he will not cast out 
any one that comes to him, and I have come to him ; — and that he 
loves those that love him, and I love him. If it did not speak so 
very plainly I should be afraid, but it makes me happy to read such 
verses as these. I wish you knew, Nancy, how happy it makes 
me.” 

This profession of faith was not spoken without starting tears. 
Nancy made no reply. 

As Miss Fortune had foretold, plenty of people came to the 
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house with proffers of service. Nancy’s being there made it easy 
for Ellen to get rid of them all. Many were the marvels that 
Miss Fortune should trust her house “to two girls like that,” and 
many the guesses that she would rue it when she got up again. 
People were wrong. Things went on very steadily and in an 
orderly manner; and Nancy kept the peace as she would have done 
in few houses. Bold and insolent as she sometimes was to others, 
she regarded Ellen with a mixed notion of respect and protection, 
which led her at once to shun doing any thing that would grieve 
her, and to thrust her aside from every heavy or difficult job, taking 
the brunt herself. Nancy might well do this, for she was at least 
twice as strong as Ellen ; but she would not have done it for every 
body. 

There were visits of kindness as well as visits of officiousness. 
Alice and Mrs. Van Brunt and Margery, one or the other every 
day. Margery would come in and mix up a batch of bread ; Alice 
would bring a bowl of butter, or a basket of cake ; and Mrs. Van 
Brunt sent whole dinners. Mr. Van Brunt was there always at 
night, and about the place as much as possible during the day ; 
when obliged to be absent, he stationed Sam Larkens to guard the 
house, also to bring wood and water, and do whatever he was bid. 
All the help, however, that was given from abroad could not make 
Ellen’s life an easy one; Mr. Van Brunt’s wishes that Miss Fort- 
une would get up again began to come very often. The history 
of one day may serve for the history of all those weeks. 

It was in the beginning of April. Ellen came down stairs early, 
but come when she would she found the fire made and the kettle 
on. Ellen felt a little as if she had not quite slept off the remem- 
brance of yesterday’s fatigue; however, that was no matter; she 
set to work. She swept up the kitchen, got her milk strainer and 
pans ready upon the buttery shelf, and began to set the table. By 
the time this was half done, in came Sam Larkens with two great 
pails of milk, and Johnny Low followed with another. They were 
much too heavy for Ellen to lift, but true to her charge she let no 
one come into the buttery but herself ; she brought the pans to the 
door, where Sam filled them for her, and as each was done she set 
it in its place on the shelf. This took some time, for there were 
eight of them. She had scarce wiped up frhe spilt milk and finished 
setting the table when Mr. Van Brunt came in. 

“ Good-morning !” said he. “ How d’ye do to-day?” 

“Very well, Mr. Van Brunt.” 

“ I wish you’d look a little redder in the face. Don’t you be too 
busy ? Where’ s Nancy ?’ ’ 

“ Oh, she’s busy, out with the clothes.” 

“ Same as ever up stairs ? — What are you going to do for break- 
fast, Ellen ?” 


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“ I don’t know, Mr. Van Brunt; there isn’t anything cooked in 
the house ; we have eaten every thing up.” 

“ Cleaned out, eh? Bread and all?” 

“ Oh, no, not bread; there’s plenty of that, but there’s nothing 
else.” 

“Well never mind ; — you bring me a ham and a dozen of eggs, 
and I’ll make you a first-rate breakfast.” 

Ellen laughed, for this was not the first time Mr. Van Brunt had 
acted as cook for the family. While she got what he had asked 
for, and bared a place on the table for his operations, he went to 
the spout and washed his hands. 

“ Now a sharp knife, Ellen, and the frying-pan, and a dish, — 
and that’s all I want of you.” 

Ellen brought them, and while he was busy with the ham she 
made the coffee and set it by the side of the fire to boil ; got the 
cream and butter, and set the bread on the table ; and then set 
herself down to rest, and amuse herself with Mr. Van Brunt’s 
cookery. He was no mean hand ; his slices of ham were very 
artist-like, and frying away in the most unexceptionable manner. 
Ellen watched him and laughed at him, till the ham was taken out 
and all the eggs broke in ; then after seeing that the coffee was 
right she went up stairs to dress her grandmother — always the last 
thing before breakfast. 

“Who’s frying ham and eggs down stairs?” inquired Miss 
Fortune. 

“ Mr. Yan Brunt,” said Ellen. 

This answer was unexpected. Miss Fortune tossed her head 
over in a dissatisfied kind of way, and told Ellen to “ tell him to 
be careful.” 

“ Of what?” thought Ellen ; and wisely concluded with herself 
not to deliver the message ; very certain she should laugh if she 
did, and she had running in her head an indistinct notion of the 
command, “ Honor thy father and thy mother.” 

Breakfast was ready but no one there when she got down stairs. 
She placed her grandmother at table, and called Nancy, who all 
this time had been getting the clothes out of the rinsing water and 
hanging them out on the line to dry ; said clothes having been 
washed the day before by Miss Sarah Lowndes, who came there 
for the purpose. Ellen poured out the coffee, and then in came 
Mr. Yan Brunt with a head of early lettuce which he had pulled 
in the garden and washed at the spout. Ellen had to jump up 
again to get the salt and pepper and vinegar; but she always 
jumped willingly for Mr. Yan Brunt. The meals were pleasanter 
during those weeks than in all the time Ellen had been in Thirlwall 
before ; or she thought so. That sharp eye at the head of the 
table was pleasantly missed. They with one accord sat longer at 


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meals ; more talking and laughing went on ; nobody felt afraid of 
being snapped up. Mr. Van Brunt praised Ellen’s coffee (he had 
taught her how to make it), and she praised his ham and eggs. 
Old Mrs. Montgomery praised every thing, and seemed to be in 
particular comfort ; talked as much as she had a mind, and was re- 
spectfully attended to. Nancy was in high feather; and the 
clatter of knives and forks and tea-cups went on very pleasantly. 
But at last chairs were pushed from the table, and work began 
again. 

Nancy went back to her tubs. Ellen supplied her grandmother 
with her knitting and filled her snuff-box ; cleared the table and 
put up the dishes ready for washing. Then she went into the 
buttery to skim the cream. This was a part of the work she 
liked. It was heavy lifting the pans of milk to the skimming 
shelf before the window, but as Ellen drew her spoon round the 
edge of the cream she liked to see it wrinkle up in thick yellow 
leathery folds, showing how deep and rich it was ; it looked half 
butter already. She knew how to take it off now very nicely. 
The cream was set by in a vessel for future churning, and the 
milk, as each pan was skimmed, was poured down the wooden 
trough at the left of the window through which it went into a great 
hogshead at the lower kitchen door. 

This done Ellen went up stairs to her aunt. Dr. Gibson always 
came early, and she and her room must be put in apple-pie order 
first. It was a long wearisome job. Ellen brought the basin for 
her to wash her face and hands ; then combed her hair and put on 
her clean cap. That was always the first thing. The next was to 
make the bed ; and for this, Miss Fortune, weak or strong, 
wrapped herself up and tumbled out upon the floor. When she 
was comfortably placed again, Ellen had to go through a laborious 
dusting of the room and all the things in it, even taking a dust- 
pan and brush to the floor if any speck of dust or crumbs could 
be seen there. Every rung of every chair must be gone over, 
though ever so clean ; every article put up or put out of the way ; 
Miss Fortune made the most of the little province of housekeep- 
ing that was left her ; and a fluttering tape escaping through the 
crack of the door would have put her whole spirit topsy-turvy. 
When all was to her mind, and not before, she would have her 
breakfast. Only gruel and biscuit, or toast and tea, or some such 
trifle, but Ellen must prepare it and bring it up stairs, and wait 
till it was eaten. And very particularly it must be prepared, and 
very faultlessly it must be served, or with an impatient expression 
of disgust Miss Fortune would send it down again. On the whole 
Ellen always thought herself happy when this part of her day was 
well over. 

When she got down this morning she found the kitchen in nice 


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order, and Nancy standing by tbe fire in a little sort of pause, 
having just done the breakfast dishes. 

“ Well !” said Nancy, — “ what are you going to do now?” 

“ Put away these dishes, and then churn,” said Ellen. 

‘‘ My goodness ! so you are. What’s going to be for dinner, 
Ellen ?” 

“That’s more than I know,” said Ellen laughing. “ We have 
eaten up Mrs. Van Brunt’s pie and washed the dish; — there’s 
nothing but some cold potatoes.” 

“ That won’t do,” said Nancy. “ I tell you what, Ellen, — we’ll 
just boil pot for to-day ; somebody else will send us something by 
to-morrow most likely.” 

“ I don’t know what you mean by ‘ boil pot,’ ” said Ellen. 

“ Oh, you don’t know every thing yet, by half. I know — I’ll 
fix it. You just give me the things, Miss Housekeeper, that’s all 
you’ve got to do ; I want a piece of pork and a piece of beef, and 
all the vegetables you’ve got.” 

“All?” said Ellen. 

“Every soul on ’em. Don’t be scared, Ellen! you shall see 
what I can do in the way of cookery; if you don’t like it you 
needn’t eat it. What have you got in the cellar ?” 

u Come and see, and take what you want, Nancy ; there is 
plenty of potatoes and carrots and onions, and beets I believe ; the 
turnips are all gone.” 

“ Parsnips out in the yard, uin’t there ?” 

“ Yes, but you’ll have to do with a piece of pork, Nancy, I 
don’t know any thing about beef.” 

While Nancy went round the cellar gathering in her apron the 
various roots she wanted, Ellen uncovered the pork barrel, and 
after looking a minute at the dark pickle she never loved to plunge 
into, bravely bared her arm and fished up a piece of pork. 

“ Now, Nancy, just help me with this churn out of the cellar, 
will you? and then you may go.” 

“ My goodness ! it is heavy,” said Nancy. “ You’ll have a time 
of it, Ellen ; but I can’t help you.” 

She went off to the garden for parsnips, and Ellen quietly put 
in the dasher and the cover, and began to churn. It was tiresome 
work. The churn was pretty full, as Nancy had said ; the cream 
was rich and cold, and at the end of half an hour grew very stiff. 
It spattered and sputtered up on Ellen’s face and hands and apron, 
and over the floor; legs and arms were both weary ; but still that 
pitiless dasher must go up and down, hard as it might be to force 
it either way ; she must not stop. In this state of matters she 
heard a pair of thick shoes come clumping down the stairs, and 
beheld Mr. Yan Brunt. 

“ Here you are !” said he. “ Churning ! — Been long at it ?” 

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“A good while,” said Ellen, with a sigh. 

“ Coming ?” 

“ 1 don’t know when.” 

Mr. Van Brunt stepped to the door and shouted for Sam 
Larkens. He was ordered to take the churn and bring the butter ; 
and Ellen, very glad of a rest, went out to amuse herself with 
feeding the chickens, and then up stairs to see what Nancy was 
doing. 

“ Butter come ?” said Nancy. 

“ No, Sam has taken it. How are you getting on ? Oh, I am 
tired !” 

“ I’m getting on first-rate ; I’ve got all the things in.” 

“ In what ?” 

11 Why, in the pot ! — in a pot of water, boiling away as fast as 
they can ; we’ll have dinner directly. Hurra ! who comes there?” 

She jumped to the door. It was Thomas, bringing Margery’s 
respects, and a custard-pie for Ellen. 

“ I declare,” said Nancy, “ it’s a good thing to have friends, ain’t 
it? I’ll try and get some. — Hollo? what’s wanting? — Mr. Van 
Brunt’s calling you, Ellen.” 

Ellen ran down. 

“ The butter’s come,” said he. “ Now do you know what to do 
with it ?’ ’ 

“ Oh, yes,” said Ellen smiling; “ Margery showed me nicely.” 

He brought her a pail of water from the spout, and stood by 
with a pleased kind of look, while she carefully lifted the cover 
and rinsed down the little bits of butter which stuck to it and the 
dasher ; took out the butter with her ladle into a large wooden 
bowl, washed it, and finally salted it. 

“ Don’t take too much pains,” said he ; — “ the less of the hand 
it gets the better. That will do very well.” 

“ Now are you ready?” said Nancy, coming down stairs, “ ’cause 
dinner is. My goodness ! ain’t that a fine lot of butter? there’s 
four pounds, ain’t there ?” 

“ Five,” said Mr. Van Brunt. 

“ And as sweet as it can be,” said Ellen. “ Beautiful, isn’t it? 
Yes, I’m ready, as soon as I set this in the cellar and cover it up.” 

Nancy’s dish, — the pork, potatoes, carrots, beets, and cabbage, 
all boiled in the same pot together, — was found very much to every 
body’s taste except Ellen’s. She made her dinner off potatoes and 
bread, the former of which she declared, laughing, were very 
porky and cabbagy ; her meal would have been an extremely light 
one, had it not been for the custard-pie. 

After dinner new labours began. Nancy had forgotten to hang 
on a pot of water for the dishes ; so after putting away the eata- 
bles in the buttery, while the water was heating, Ellen warmed 


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some gruel and carried it with a plate of biscuit up stairs to her 
aunt. But Miss Fortune said she was tired of gruel and couldn’t 
eat it ; she must have some milk porridge ; and she gave Ellen 
very particular directions how to make it. Ellen sighed only once 
as she went down with her despised dish of gruel, and set about 
doing her best to fulfil her aunt’s wishes. The first dish of milk 
she burnt ; — another sigh and another trial ; — better care this time 
had better success, and Ellen had the satisfaction to see her aunt 
perfectly suited with her dinner. 

When she came down with the empty bowl Nancy had a pile of 
dishes ready washed, and Ellen took the towel to dry them. Mrs. 
Montgomery, who had been in an uncommonly quiet fit all day, 
now laid down her knitting and asked if Ellen would not come 
and read to her. 

“ Presently, grandma, — as soon as I have done here.” 

“I know somebody that’s tired,” said Nancy. “I tell you 
what, Ellen, — you had better take to liking pork ; you can’t work 
on potatoes. I ain’t tired a bit. There’s somebody coming to the 
door again ! Do run and open it, will you ? my hands are wet. I 
wonder why folks can’t come in without giving so much trouble.” 

It was Thomas again, with a package for Ellen which had just 
come, he said, and Miss Alice thought she would like to have it 
directly. Ellen thanked her, and thanked him, with a face from 
which all signs of weariness had fled away. The parcel was sealed 
up, and directed in a hand she was pretty sure she knew. Her 
fingers burned to break the seal ; but she would not open it there, 
neither leave her work unfinished ; she went on wiping the dishes 
with trembling hands and a beating heart. 

“ What’s that ?” said Nancy ; “ what did Thomas Grimes want ? 
what have you got there ?” 

“I don’t know,” said Ellen smiling; — “something good, I 
guess.” 

“ Something good? is it something to eat?” 

“No,” said Ellen, — “I didn’t mean anything to eat when I 
said something good ; I don’t think those are the best things.” 

To Ellen’s delight she saw that her grandmother had forgotten 
about the reading and was quietly taking short naps with her head 
against the chimney. So she put away the last dish, and then 
seized her package and flew up stairs. She was sure it had come 
from Doncaster ; she was right. It was a beautiful copy of the 
“Pilgrim’s Progress,” — on the first leaf written, “To my little 
sister Ellen Montgomery, from J. H. and within the cover lay 
a letter. This letter Ellen read in the course of the next six 
days at least twice as many times ; and never without crying over 
it. 

“Alice has told me” (said John), “about your new troubles. 


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There is said to be a time ‘ when the clouds return after the rain.’ 
I am sorry, my little sister, this time should come to you so early. 
I often think of you, and wish I could be near you. Still, dear 
Elbe, the good Husbandman knows what his plants want ; do you 
believe that, and can you trust him ? They should have nothing 
but sunshine if that was good for them. He knows it is not ; so 
there come clouds and rains, and £ stormy wind fulfilling his will.* 
And what is it all for ? — ‘ Herein is my Father glorified, that ye hear 
much fruit;'' do not disappoint his purpose, Ellie. We shall have 
sunshine enough by and by, — but I know it is hard for so young a 
one as my little sister to look much forward ; so do not look for- 
ward, Ellie ; look up ! look off unto Jesus, — from all your duties, 
troubles, and wants ; he will help you in them all. The more you 
look up to him the more he will look down to you ; and he espe- 
cially said, 1 Suffer little children to come unto me ;’ you see you are 
particularly invited.” 

Ellen was a long time up stairs, and when she came down it was 
with red eyes. 

Mrs. Montgomery was now awake and asked for the reading 
again; and for three-quarters of an hour Ellen and she were 
quietly busy with the Bible. Nancy meanwhile was down stairs 
washing the dairy things. When her grandmother released her 
Ellen had to go up to wait upon her aunt ; after which she went 
into the buttery, and skimmed the cream, and got the pans ready 
for the evening milk. By this time it was five o’clock, and Nancy 
came in with the basket of dry clothes ; at which Ellen looked 
with the sorrowful consciousness that they must be sprinkled and 
folded by and by, and ironed to-morrow. It happened, however, 
that Jane Huff came in just then with a quantity of hot short- 
cake for tea ; and seeing the basket she very kindly took the busi- 
ness of sprinkling and folding upon herself. This gave Ellen 
spirits to carry out a plan she had long had, to delight the whole 
family with some eggs scrambled in Margery’s fashion ; after the 
milk was strained and put away she went about it, while Nancy 
set the table. A nice bed of coals was prepared ; the spider set 
over them ; the eggs broken in, peppered and salted ; and she be- 
gan carefully to stir them as she had seen Margery do. But in- 
stead of acting right the eggs maliciously stuck fast to the spider 
and burned. Ellen was confounded. 

“ How much butter did you put in?” said Mr. Van Brunt, who 
had come in, and stood looking on. 

“ Butter !” said Ellen looking up, — “ oh, I forgot all about it ! — 
I ought to have put that in, oughtn’t I ! — I’m sorry !” 

“ Never mind,” said Mr. Yan Brunt, — ££ ’tain’t worth your being 
sorry about. Here, Nancy — clean us off this spider, and we’ll try 
again.” 


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369 


At this moment Miss Fortune was heard screaming ; Ellen ran 

up. 

“What did she want?” said Mr. Van Brunt when she came 
down again. 

“ She wanted to know what was burning.” 

“ Did you tell her?” 

“ Yes.” 


“ Well, what did she say ?” 

“ Said I mustn’t use any more eggs without asking her.” 

“ That ain’t fair play,” said Mr. Van Brunt ; — il you and I are 
the head of the house now, I take it. You just use as many on 
’em as you’ve a mind ; and all you spile I’ll fetch you again from 
hum. That’s you, Nancy! Now, Ellen, here’s the spider; try 
again ; let’s have plenty of butter in this time, and plenty of eggs 
too.” 

This time the eggs were scrambled to a nicety, and the supper 
met with great favour from all parties. 

Ellen’s day was done when the dishes were. The whole family 
went early to bed. She was weary ; but she could rest well. She 
had made her old grandmother comfortable ; she had kept the 
peace with Nancy; she had pleased Mr. Van Brunt; she had 
faithfully served her aunt. Her sleep was uncrossed by a dream, 
untroubled by a single jar of conscience. And her awaking to 
another day of labour, though by no means joyful, was yet not 
unhopeful or unhappy. 

She had a hard trial a day or two after. It was in the end of 
the afternoon, she had her big apron on, and was in the buttery 
skimming the milk, when she heard the kitchen door open, and 
footsteps enter the kitchen. Out went little Ellen to see who it 
was, and there stood Alice and old Mr. Marshman ! He was going 
to take Alice home with him the next morning, and wanted Ellen 
to go too ; and they had come to ask her. Ellen knew it was im- 
possible, that is, that it would not be right, and she said so ; and 
in spite of Alice’s wistful look, and Mr. Marshman’ s insisting, she 
stood her ground. Not without some difficulty, and some glisten- 
ing of the eyes: They had to give it up. Mr. Marshman then 
wanted to know what she meant by swallowing herself up in an 
apron in that sort of way ? so Ellen had him into the buttery and 
showed him what she had been about. He would see her skim 
several pans, and laughed at her prodigiously ; though there was a 
queer look about his eyes, too, all the time. And when he went 
away, he held her in his arms, and kissed her again and again ; and 
said that “ some of these days he would take her away from her 
aunt, and she should have her no more.” Ellen stood and looked 
after them till they were out of sight, and then went up stairs and 
had a good cry. 


370 


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The butter-making soon became quite too much for Ellen to 
manage ; so Jane Huff' and Jenny Hitchcock were engaged to 
come by turns and do the heavy part of it ; all within the buttery 
being still left to Ellen, for Miss Fortune would have no one else 
go there. It was a great help to have them take even so much 
off her hands; and they often did some other little odd jobs for 
her. The milk however seemed to increase as fast as the days 
grew longer, and Ellen could not find that she was much less busy. 
The days were growing pleasant too ; soft airs began to come ; the 
grass was of a beautiful green ; the buds on the branches began 
to swell, and on some trees to put out. When Ellen had a moment 
of time she used to run across the chip-yard to the barn, or round 
the garden, or down to the brook, and drink in the sweet air and 
the lovely sights which never had seemed quite so lovely before. 
If once in a while she could get half an hour before tea, she used 
to take her book and sit down on the threshold of the front door, 
or on the big log under the apple-tree in the chip-yard. In those 
minutes the reading was doubly sweet ; or else the loveliness of 
earth and sky was such that Ellen could not take her eyes from 
them ; till she saw Sam or Johnny coming out of the cowhouse 
door with the pails of milk, or heard their heavy tramp over the 
chips; — then she had to jump and run. Those were sweet half 
hours. Ellen did not at first know how' much reason she had to 
be delighted with her “Pilgrim’s Progress;” she saw to be sure 
that it was a fine copy, well bound, with beautiful cuts. But when 
she came to look further, she found all through the book, on the 
margin or at the bottom of the leaves, in John’s beautiful hand- 
writing, a great many notes — simple, short, plain, exactly what was 
needed to open the whole book to her and make it of the greatest 
possible use and pleasure. Many things she remembered hearing 
from his lips when they were reading it together ; there was a 
large part of the book where all was new ; the part he had not 
had time to finish. How Ellen loved the book and the giver when 
she found these beautiful notes, it is impossible to tell. She 
counted it her greatest treasure next to her little red Bible. 


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371 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

Oh, what will I do wi’ him, quo’ he, 

What will I do wi’ him? 

What will I do wi’ him, quo’ he, 

What will I do wi’ him? 

Old Song. 

In the course of time Miss Fortune showed signs of mending ; 
and, at last, toward the latter end of April, she was able to come 
down stairs. All parties hailed this event for different reasons; 
even Nancy was growing tired of her regular life, and willing to 
have a change. Ellen’s joy was, however, soon diminished by the 
terrible rummaging which took place. Miss Fortune’s hands were 
yet obliged to lie still, but her eyes did double duty ; they were 
never known to be idle in the best of times, and it seemed to Ellen 
now as if they were taking amends for all their weeks of forced 
rest. Oh, those eyes ! Dust was found where Ellen never dreamed 
of looking for any ; things were said to be dreadfully “ in the way” 
where she had never found it out ; disorder and dirt were groaned 
over, where Ellen did not know the fact or was utterly ignorant 
how to help it ; waste was suspected where none had been, and 
carelessness charged where rather praise was due. Impatient to 
have things to her mind, and as yet unable to do any thing herself, 
Miss Fortune kept Nancy and Ellen running, till both wished her 
back in bed ; and even Mr. Van Brunt grumbled that “ to pay 
Ellen for having grown white and poor, her aunt was going to work 
the little flesh she had left off her bones.” It was rather hard to 
bear, just when she was looking for ease too ; her patience and 
temper were more tried than in all those weeks before. But if 
there was small pleasure in pleasing her aunt, Ellen did earnestly 
wish to please God ; she struggled against ill temper, prayed 
against it; and though she often blamed herself in secret, she did 
so go through that week as to call forth Mr. Van Brunt’s admira- 
tion, and even to stir a little the conscience of her aunt. Mr. Van 
Brunt comforted her with the remark that “ it is darkest just be- 
fore day,” and so it proved. Before the week was at an end Miss 
Fortune began, as she expressed it, to “ take hold ;” Jenny Hitch- 
cock and Jane Huff were excused from any more butter-making ; 
Nancy was sent away ; Ellen’s labours were much lightened ; and 
the house was itself again. 

The third of May came. For the first time in near two months 
Ellen found in the afternoon she could be spared awhile ; there was 
no need to think twice what she would do with her leisure. Per- 


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haps Margery could tell her something of Alice ! Hastily and 
joyfully she exchanged her working frock for a merino, put on 
nice shoes and stockings and ruffle again, and taking her bonnet 
and gloves to put on out of doors, away she ran. Who can tell 
how pleasant it seemed, after so many weeks, to be able to walk 
abroad again, and to walk to the mountain ! Ellen snuffed the 
sweet air, skipped on the green sward, picked nosegays of grass 
and dandelions, and at last unable to contain herself set off to run. 
Fatigue soon brought this to a stop ; then she walked more leisurely 
on, enjoying. It was a lovely spring day. Ellen’s eyes were glad- 
dened by it ; she felt thankful in her heart that Glod had made 
every thing so beautiful ; she thought it was pleasant to think he 
had made them ; pleasant to see in them everywhere so much of 
the wisdom and power and goodness of him she looked up to with 
joy as her best friend. She felt quietly happy, and sure he would 
take care of her. Then a thought of Alice came into her head ; 
she set off to run again, and kept it up this time till she got to the 
old house and ran round the corner. She stopped at the shed door 
and went through into the lower kitchen. 

“ Why, Miss Ellen dear !” exclaimed Margery, — “if that isn’t 
you! Aren’t you come in the very nick of time! How do you 
do? I am very glad to see you — uncommon glad to be sure. 
What witch told you to come here just now? Run in, run into 
the parlour and see what you’ll find there.” 

“ Has Alice come back ?” cried Ellen. But Margery only 
laughed and said, “ Run in !” 

Up the steps, through the kitchen, and across the hall, Ellen 
ran, — burst open the parlour door, — and was in Alice’s arms. 
There were others in the room ; but Ellen did not seem to know 
it, clinging to her and holding her in a fast glad embrace, till Alice 
bade her look up and attend to somebody else. And then she was 
seized round the neck by little Ellen Chauncey ! — and then came 
her mother, and then Miss Sophia. The two children were over- 
joyed to see each other, while their joy was touching to see, from 
the shade of sorrow in the one, and of sympathy in the other. 
Ellen was scarcely less glad to see kind Mrs. Chauncey ; Miss 
Sophia’s greeting too was very affectionate. But Ellen returned 
to Alice, and rested herself in her lap with one arm round her 
neck, the other hand being in little Ellen’s grasp. 

“ And now you are happy, I suppose ?” said Miss Sophia when 
they were thus placed. 

“Very,” said Ellen, smiling. 

“ Ah, but you’ll be happier by and by,” said Ellen Chauncey. 

“Hush, Ellen!” said Miss Sophia; — “what curious things 
children are ! — You didn’t expect to find us all here, did you, Ellen 
Montgomery?” 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 373 

“No indeed, ma’am,” said Ellen, drawing Alice’s cheek nearer 
for another kiss. 

“We have but just come, Ellie,” said her sister. “I should 
not have been long in finding you out. My child, how thin you 
have got.” 

“ Oh, I’ll grow fat again now,” said Ellen. 

“ How is Miss Fortune ?” 

“ Oh, she is up again and well.” 

“ Have you any reason to expect your father home, Ellen ?” said 
Mrs. Chauncey. 

“ Yes, ma’am ; — aunt Fortune says perhaps he will be here in a 
week.” 

“ Then you are very happy in looking forward, aren’t you ?” said 
Miss Sophia, not noticing the cloud that had come over Ellen’s 
brow. 

Ellen hesitated, — coloured — coloured more, — and finally with a 
sudden motion hid her face against Alice. 

“ When did he sail, Ellie ?” said Alice gravely. 

“ In the Due d’ Orleans — he said he would ” 

“ When r 

“The fifth of April. — Oh, I can’t help it!” exclaimed Ellen, 
failing in the effort to control herself ; she clasped Alice as if she 
feared even then the separating hand. Alice bent her head down 
and whispered words of comfort. 

“Mamma!” said little Ellen Chauncey under her breath, and 
looking solemn to the last degree, — “ don’t Ellen want to see her 
father?” 

“ She’s afraid that he may take her away where she will not be 
with Alice any more ; and you know she has no mother to go to.” 

“ Oh !” said Ellen with a very enlightened face ; — “ but he won’t, 
will he ?” 

“ I hope not; I think not.” 

Cheered again, the little girl drew near and silently took one of 
Ellen’s hands. 

“We shall not be parted, Ellie,” said Alice, — “ you need not 
fear. If your father takes you away from your aunt Fortune, I 
think it will be only to give you to me. You need not fear yet.” 

“ Mamma says so too, Ellen,” said her little friend. 

This was strong consolation. Ellen looked up and smiled. 

“Now come with me,” said Ellen Chauncey, pulling her hand, 
— “I want you to show me something; let’s go down to the 
garden, — come ! exercise is good for you.” 

“No, no,” said her mother smiling, — “Ellen has had exercise 
enough lately ; you mustn’t take her down to the garden now ; you 
would find nothing there. Come here !” 

A long whisper followed, which seemed to satisfy little Ellen 

32 


374 


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and she ran out of the room. Some time passed in pleasant talk 
and telling all that had happened since they had seen each other ; 
then little Ellen came back and called Ellen Montgomery to the 
glass door, saying she wanted her to look at something. 

“ It is only a horse we brought with us,” said Miss Sophia. 
“ Ellen thinks it is a great beauty, and can’t rest till you have seen 
it.” 

Ellen went accordingly to the door. There to be sure was 
Thomas before it holding a pony bridled and saddled. He was 
certainly a very pretty little creature ; brown all over except one 
white forefoot ; his coat shone it was so glossy ; his limbs were 
fine ; his eye gentle and bright ; his tail long enough to please the 
children. He stood as quiet as a lamb, whether Thomas held him 
or not. 

“Oh, what a beauty!” said Ellen; — “what a lovely little 
horse !” 

“Ain’t he!” said Ellen Chauncey ; — “and he goes so beau- 
tifully besides, and never starts nor nothing ; and he is as good- 
natured as a little dog.” 

“As a good-natured little dog, she means, Ellen,” said Miss 
Sophia, — “ there are little dogs of very various character.” 

“Well he looks good-natured,” said Ellen. “What a pretty 
head ! — and what a beautiful new side-saddle, and all. I never 
saw such a dear little horse in my life. Is it yours, Alice ?’ ’ 

“No,” said Alice, “it is a present to a friend of Mr. Marsh- 
man’s.” 

“ She’ll be a very happy friend, I should think,” said Ellen. 

“That’s what I said,” said Ellen Chauncey, dancing up and 
down, — “ that’s what I said. I said you’d be happier by and by, 
didn’t I?” 

“I?” said Ellen colouring. 

“Yes, you, — you are the friend it is for ; it’s for you, it’s for 
you! you are grandpa’s friend, aren’t you?” she repeated, spring- 
ing upon Ellen, and hugging her up in an ecstasy of delight. 

“But it isn’t really for me, is it?” said Ellen, now looking 
almost pale ; — “ Oh, Alice ! — ” 

“ Come, come,” said Miss Sophia, — “ what will papa say if I tell 
him you received his present so ? — come, hold up your head ! Put 
on your bonnet and try him ; — come, Ellen ! let’s see you.” 

Ellen did not know whether to cry or laugh, — till she mounted 
the pretty pony; that settled the matter. Not Ellen Chauncey’s 
unspeakable delight was as great as her own. She rode slowly up 
and down before the house, and once a-going would not have 
known how to stop if she had not recollected that the pony had 
travelled thirty miles that day and must be tired. Ellen took not 
another turn after that. She jumped down, and begged Thomas 


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375 


to take the tenderest care of him ; patted his neck ; ran into the 
kitchen to beg of Margery a piece of bread to give him from her 
H hand ; examined the new stirrup and housings, and the pony all 
i over a dozen times ; and after watching him as Thomas led him 
< off, till he was out of sight, finally came back into the house with a 



face of marvellous contentment. She tried to fashion some 
message of thanks for the kind giver of the pony ; but she wanted 
to express so much that no words would do. Mrs. Chauncey how- 
ever smiled and assured her she knew exactly what to say. 

“That pony has been destined for you, Ellen,” she said, “this 


376 


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year and more ; but my father waited to have him thoroughly well 
broken. You need not be afraid of him ; he is perfectly gentle 
and well-trained ; if he had not been sure of that my father would 
never have sent him ; — though Mr. John is making such a horse- 
woman of you.” 

“I wish I could thank him,” said Ellen ; — “ but I don’t know 
how” 

“What will you call him, Ellen,” said Miss Sophia. “ My 
father has dubbed him ‘ George Marshman — he says you will like 
that, as my brother is such a favourite of yours.” 

“ He didn’t really , did he?” said Ellen, looking from Sophia to 
Alice. “ I needn’t call him that, need I?” 

“ Not unless you like,” said Miss Sophia laughing, — “ you may 
change it ; but what will you call him ?” 

“I don’t know,” said Ellen very gravely, — “he must have a 
name to be sure.” 

“But why don’t you call him that?” said Ellen Chauncey ; — 
“ George is a very pretty name : — I like that; I should call him 
‘Uncle George.’ ” 

“Oh, I couldn’t!” said Ellen, — “I couldn’t call him so; I 
shouldn’t like it at all.” 

“ George Washington ?” said Mrs. Chauncey. 

“ No indeed !” said Ellen. “ I guess I wouldn’t !’ 

“ Why, is it too good, or not good enough ?” said Miss Sophia. 

“ Too good ! A great deal too good for a horse ! I wouldn’t 
for any thing.” 

“ How would Brandywine do then, since you are so patriotic ?” 
said Miss Sophia, looking amused. 

“ What is ‘ patriotic ?’ ” said Ellen. 

“ A patriot, Ellen,” said Alice smiling, — “ is one who has a 
strong and true love for his country.” 

“I don’t know whether I am patriotic,” said Ellen, “ but I 
won’t call him Brandywine. Why, Miss Sophia!” 

“ No, I wouldn’t either,” said Ellen Chauncey ; — “ it isn’t a pretty 
name. Call him Seraphine! — like Miss Angell’s pony — that’s 
pretty.” 

“ No, no, — ‘ Seraphine !’ nonsense !” said Miss Sophia ; — “ call 
him Benedict Arnold, Ellen ; and then it will be a relief to your 
mind to whip him.” 

“ Whip him !” said Ellen, — “ I don’t want to whip him, I am 
sure ; and I should be afraid to besides.” 

“ Hasn’t John taught you that lesson yet ?” said the young lady ; 
— “ he is perfect in it himself. Do you remember, Alice, the chas- 
tising he gave that fine black horse of ours we called the ‘ Black 
Prince?’ — a beautiful creature he was, — more than a year ago ? — 
My conscience! he frightened me to death.” 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 377 

u I remember,” said Alice ; “ I remember I could not look on.” 

“ What did he do that for ?” said Ellen. 

“What’s the matter, Ellen Montgomery ?’ 1 said Miss Sophia, 
laughing, — “ where did you get that long face ? Are you thinking 
of John or the horse?” 

Ellen’s eyes turned to Alice. 

“ My dear Ellen,” said Alice smiling, though she spoke seri- 
ously, — “ it was necessary ; it sometimes is necessary to do such 
things. You do not suppose John would do it cruelly or unneces- 
sarily ?” 

Ellen’s face shortened considerably. 

“ But what had the horse been doing?” 

“ He had not been doing any thing ; he would not do, — that was 
the trouble ; he was as obstinate as a mule.” 

“ My dear Ellen,” said Alice, “ it was no such terrible matter as 
Sophia’s words have made you believe. It was a clear case of 
obstinacy. The horse was resolved to have his own way and not 
do what his rider required of him ; it was necessary that either 
the horse or the man should give up ; and as John has no fancy 
for giving up, he carried his point, — partly by management, partly, 
I confess, by a judicious use of the whip and spur ; but there was 
no such furious flagellation as Sophia seems to mean, and which a 
good horseman would scarce be guilty of.” 

“ A very determined 1 use,’ ” said Miss Sophia. “ I advise you, 
Ellen, not to trust your pony to Mr. John ; he will have no mercy 
on him.” 

“Sophia is laughing, Ellen,” said Alice. “You and I know 
John, do we not ?” 

“ Then he did right?” said Ellen. 

“ Perfectly right — except in mounting the horse at all, which I 
never wished him to do. No one on the place would ride him.” 

“ He carried John beautifully all the day after that though,” 
said Miss Sophia, “ and I dare say he might have ridden him to 
the end of the chapter if you would have let papa give him to 
him. But he was of no use to any body else. Howard couldn’t 
manage him — I suppose he was too lazy. Papa was delighted 
enough that day to have given John any thing. And I can tell 
you Black Prince the second is spirited enough ; I am afraid you 
won’t like him.” 

“ John has a present of a horse too, Ellen,” said Alice. 

“ Has he ? — from Mr. Marshman ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“I’m very glad! Oh, what rides we can take now, can’t we, 
Alice? We shan’t want to borrow Jenny’s pony any more. What 
kind of a horse is Mr. John’s?” 

“ Black, — perfectly black.” 


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“ Is he handsome ?” 

“ Very.” 

“ Is his name Black Prince ?” 

“ Yes.” 

Ellen began to consider the possibility of calling her pony the 
Brown Princess, or by some similar title — the name of John’s two 
chargers seeming the very most striking a horse could be known by. 

“Don’t forget, Alice,” said Mrs. Chauncey, “to tell John to 
stop for him on his way home. It will give us a chance of seeing 
him, which is not a common pleasure, in any sense of the term.” 

They went back to the subject of the name, which Ellen pon- 
dered with uneasy visions of John and her poor pony flitting 
through her head. The little horse was very hard to fit, or else 
Ellen’s taste was very hard to suit ; a great many names were pro- 
posed, none of which were to her mind, Charley, and Cherry, and 
Brown, and Dash, and Juniper, — but she said they had “John” 
and “Jenny” already in Thirlwall, and she didn’t want a “ Char- 
ley ;” “ Brown” was not pretty, and she hoped he wouldn’t “ dash” 
at any thing, nor be a “jumper” when she was on his back. 
Cherry she mused awhile about, but it wouldn’t do. 

“Call him Fairy,” said Ellen Chauncey; — “that’s a pretty 
name. Mamma says she used to have a horse called Fairy. Do, 
Ellen ! call him Fairy.” 

“No,” said Ellen ; “he can’t have a lady’s name — that’s the 
trouble.” 

“ I have it, Ellen !” said Alice ; — “ I have a name for you, — call 
him the Brownie.” 

“ The ‘ Brownie?’ ” said Ellen. 

“ Yes — brownies are male fairies ; and brown is his colour; so 
how will that do ?” 

It was soon decided that it would do very well. It was simple, 
descriptive, and not common ; Ellen made up her mind that “ The 
Brownie” should be his name. No sooner given, it began to grow 
dear. Ellen’s face quitted its look of anxious gravity and. came 
out into the broadest and fullest satisfaction. She never showed 
joy boisterously ; but there was a light in her eye which brought 
many a smile into those of her friends as they sat round the tea- 
table. 

After tea it was necessary to go home, much to the sorrow of all 
parties. Ellen knew however it would not do to stay ; Miss 
Fortune was but just got well, and perhaps already thinking her- 
self ill-used. She put on her things. 

“Are you going to take your pony home with you?” said Miss 
Sophia. 

“ Oh, no, ma’am, not to-night. I must see about a place for 
him ; and besides, poor fellow, he is tired I dare say.” 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 379 

“ I do believe you would take more care of his legs than of your 
own,” said Miss Sophia. 

“ But you’ll be here to-morrow early, Ellie?” 

“ Oh, won’t I !” exclaimed Ellen, as she sprang to Alice’s neck ; 
— “ as early as I can, at least; I don’t know when aunt Fortune 
will have done with me.” 

The way home seemed as nothing. If she was tired she did not 
know it. The Brownie ! the Brownie ! — the thought of him car- 
ried her as cleverly over the ground as his very back would have 
done. She came running into the chip-yard. 

“ Hollo !” cried Mr. Van Brunt, who was standing under the 
apple-tree cutting a piece of wood for the tongue of the ox-cart, 
which had been broken, — “ I’m glad to see you can run. I was 
afeard you’d hardly be able to stand by this time ; but there you 
come like a young deer !” 

“ Oh, Mr. Van Brunt,” said Ellen, coming close up to him and 
speaking in an under tone, — “you don’t know what a present I 
have had ! What do you think Mr. Marshman has sent me from 
Ventnor ?” 

“ Couldn’t guess,” said Mr. Yan Brunt, resting the end of his 
pole on the log and chipping at it with his hatchet; — “never 
guessed any thing in my life ; — what is it?” 

“ He has sent me the most beautiful little horse you ever saw ! 
— for my own — for me to ride ; and a new beautiful saddle and 
bridle; you never saw any thing so beautiful, Mr. Yan Brunt; he 
is all brown, with one white forefoot, and I’ve named him the 
‘ Brownie;’ and oh, Mr. Yan Brunt! do you think aunt Fortune 
will let him come here?” 

Mr. Yan Brunt chipped away at his pole, looking very good- 
humoured. 

“ Because you know I couldn’t have half the good of him if he 
had to stay away from me up on the mountain. I shall want to 
ride him every day. Do you think aunt Fortune will let him be 
kept here, Mr. Yan Brunt?” 

“I guess she will,” said Mr. Yan Brunt soberly, and his tone 
said to Ellen, “/will, if she don’t.” 

“Then will you ask her and see about it? — if you please Mr. 
Yan Brunt! I’d rather you would. And you won’t have him 
put to plough or any thing, will you, Mr. Yan Brunt? Miss 
Sophia says it would spoil him.” 

“ I’ll plough myself first,” said Mr. Yan Brunt with his half 
smile ; — “ there shan’t be a hair of his coat turned the wrong way. 
I'll see to him — as if he was a prince.” 

“ Oh, thank you, dear Mr. Yan Brunt! How good you are. 
Then I shall not speak about him at all till you do, remember. I 
am very much obliged to you, Mr. Yan Brunt!” 


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Ellen ran in. She got a chiding for her long stay, but it fell 
upon ears that could not hear. The Brownie came like a shield 
between her and all trouble. She smiled at her aunt’s hard words 
as if they had been sugar-plums. And her sleep that night might 
have been prairie land, for the multitude of horses of all sorts that 
chased through it. 

“Have you heerd the news?” said Mr. Van Brunt, when he 
had got his second cup of coffee at breakfast next morning. 

“No,” said Miss Fortune. “What news?” 

“There ain’t as much news as there used to be when I was 
young,” said the old lady; — “ ’seems to me I don’t hear nothing 
now-a-days.” 

“You might if you’d keep your ears open, mother. What 
news, Mr. Van Brunt?” 

“ Why, here’s Ellen’s got a splendid little horse sent her a pres- 
ent from some of her great friends, — Mr. Marshchalk, — ” 

“ Mr. Marshman,” said Ellen. 

“Mr. Marshman. There ain’t the like in the country, as I’ve 
heerd tell; and I expect next thing she’ll be flying over all the 
fields and fences like smoke.” 

There was a meaning silence. Ellen’s heart beat. 

“What’s going to be done with him, do you suppose?” said 
Miss Fortune. Her look said, “If you think I am coming round 
you are mistaken.” 

“Humph!” said Mr. Van Brunt slowly, — “I s’ pose he’ll eat 
grass in the meadow, — and there’ll be a place fixed for him in the 
stables.” 

“ Not in my stables,” said the lady shortly. 

“No, — in mine,” said Mr. Van Brunt half smiling; — “and I’ll 
settle with you about it by and by, — when we square up our ac- 
counts.” 

Miss Fortune was very much vexed ; Ellen could see that ; but 
she said no more, good or bad, about the matter ; so the Brownie 
was allowed to take quiet possession of meadow and stables ; to 
his mistress’s unbounded joy. 

Any body that knew Mr. Van Brunt would have been surprised 
to hear what he said that morning ; for he was thought to be quite 
as keen a looker after the main chance as Miss Fortune herself, 
only somehow it was never laid against him as it was against her. 
However that might be, it was plain he took pleasure in keeping 
his word about the pony. Ellen herself could not have asked 
more careful kindness for her favourite than the Brownie had from 
every man and boy about the farm. 


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381 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


Thou must run to him ; for thou hast stayed so long that going will scarce serve 
the turn. — Shakspeare. 

Captain Montgomery did not come the next week, nor the 
week after ; and what is more, the Duck Dorleens, as his sister 
called the ship in which he had taken passage, was never heard of 
from that time. She sailed duly on the fifth of April, as they 
learned from the papers ; but whatever became of her she never 
reached port. It remained a doubt whether Captain Montgomery 
had actually gone in her ; and Ellen had many weeks of anxious 
watching, first for himself, and then for news of him in case he 
were still in France. None ever came. Anxiety gradually faded 
into uncertainty ; and by midsummer no doubt of the truth re- 
mained in any mind. If Captain Montgomery had been alive, he 
would certainly have written, if not before, on learning the fate 
of the vessel in which he had told his friends to expect him home. 

Ellen rather felt that she was an orphan than that she had lost 
her father. She had never learned to love him, he had never given 
her much cause. Comparatively a small portion of her life had 
been passed in his society, and she looked back to it as the least 
agreeable of all ; and it had not been possible for her to expect 
with pleasure his return to America and visit to Thirlwall ; she 
dreaded it. Life had nothing now worse for her than a separation 
from Alice and John Humphreys ; she feared her father might 
take her away and put her in some dreadful boarding-school, or 
carry her about the world wherever he went, a wretched wanderer 
from every thing good and pleasant. The knowledge of his death 
had less pain for her than the removal of this fear brought relief. 

Ellen felt sometimes, soberly and sadly, that she was thrown upon 
the wide world now. To all intents and purposes so she had been 
a year and three-quarters before ; but it was something to have a 
father and mother living even on the other side of the world. 
Now Miss Fortune was her sole guardian and owner. However, 
she could hardly realize that, with Alice and John so near at hand. 
Without reasoning much about it, she felt tolerably secure that 
they would take care of her interests, and make good their claim 
to interfere if ever need were. 

Ellen and her little horse grew more and more fond of each 
other. This friendship, no doubt, was a comfort to the Brownie ; 
but to his mistress it made a large part of the pleasure of her 
every-day life. To visit him was her delight, at all hours, early 


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and late ; and it is to the Brownie’s credit that he always seemed 
as glad to see her as she was to see him. At any time Ellen’s 
voice would bring him from the far end of the meadow where he 
was allowed to run. He would come trotting up at her call, and 
stand to have her scratch his forehead or pat him and talk to him ; 
and though the Brownie could not answer her speeches he cer- 
tainly seemed to hear them with pleasure. Then throwing up his 
head he would bound off, take a turn in the field, and come back 
again to stand as still as a lamb as long as she stayed there herself. 
Now and then, when she had a little more time, she would cross 
the fence and take a walk with him ; and there, with his nose just 
at her elbow, wherever she went the Brownie went after her. 
After a while there was no need that she should call him ; if he 
saw or heard her at a distance it was enough ; he would come run- 
ning up directly. Ellen loved him dearly. 

She gave him more proof of it than words and caresses. Many 
were the apples and scraps of bread hoarded up for him ; and if 
these failed, Ellen sometimes took him a little salt to show that he 
was not forgotten. There were not certainly many scraps left at 
Miss Fortune’s table; nor apples to be had at home for such a 
purpose, except what she gathered up from the poor ones that were 
left under the trees for the hogs ; but Ellen had other sources of 
supply. Once she had begged from Jenny Hitchcock a waste bit 
that she was going to throw away ; Jenny found what she wanted 
to do with it, and after that many a basket of apples and many a 
piece of cold shortcake was set by for her. Margery, too, remem- 
bered the Brownie when disposing of her odds and ends ; likewise 
did Mrs. Van Brunt ; so that among them all Ellen seldom wanted 
something to give him. Mr. Marshman did not know w 7 hat hap- 
piness he was bestowing when he sent her that little horse. Many, 
many, w r ere the hours of enjoyment she had upon his back. Ellen 
went nowhere but upon the Brownie. Alice made her a riding- 
dress of dark gingham ; and it was the admiration of the country 
to see her trotting or cantering by, all alone, and always looking 
happy. Ellen soon found that if the Brownie was to do her much 
good she must learn to saddle and bridle him herself. This was 
very awkward at first, but there was no help for it. Mr. Van 
Brunt showed her how to manage, and after a while it became 
quite easy. She used to call the Brownie to the bar-place, put the 
bridle on, and let him out; and then he would stand motionless 
before her while she fastened the saddle on ; looking round some- 
times as if to make sure that it was she herself, and giving a little 
kind of satisfied neigh when he saw that it was. Ellen’s heart 
began to dance as soon as she felt him moving: under her : and 
once off and away on the docile and spirited little animal, over the 
roads, through the lanes, up and down the hills, her horse her only 


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companion, but having the most perfect understanding with him, 
bbth Ellen and the Brownie cast care to the winds. “ I do be- 
lieve,” said Mr. Van Brunt, “ that critter would a leetle rather 
have Ellen on his back than not.” He was the Brownie’s next 
best friend. Miss Fortune never said any thing to him or of him. 

Ellen however reaped a reward for her faithful steadiness to 
duty while her aunt was ill. Things were never after that as they 
had been before. She was looked on with a different eye. To be 
sure Miss Fortune tasked her as much as ever, spoke as sharply, 
was as ready to scold if any thing went wrong ; — all that was just 
as it used to be ; but beneath all that Ellen felt with great satis- 
faction that she was trusted and believed. She was no longer an 
interloper, in every body’s way ; she was not watched and sus- 
pected ; her aunt treated her as one of the family and a person to 
be depended on. It was a very great comfort to little Ellen’s life. 
Miss Fortune even owned that “she believed she was an honest 
child and meant to do right,” — a great deal from her; Miss For- 
tune was never over forward to give any one the praise of honesty. 
Ellen now went out and came in without feeling she was an alien. 
And though her aunt was always bent on keeping herself and 
every body else at work, she did not now show any particular de- 
sire for breaking off Ellen from her studies ; and was generally 
willing when the work was pretty well done up that she should 
saddle the Brownie and be off to Alice or Mrs. Vawse. 

Though Ellen was happy, it was a sober kind of happiness ; — 
the sun shining behind a cloud. And if others thought her so, it 
was not because she laughed loudly or wore a merry face. 

“ I can’t help but think,” said Mrs. Van Brunt, “ that that child 
has something more to make her happy than what she gets in this 
world.” 

There was a quilting party gathered that afternoon at Mrs. Van 
Brunt’s house. 

“ There is no doubt of that, neighbour,” said Mrs. Yawse ; “ no- 
body ever found enough here to make him happy yet.” 

u Well I don’t want to see a prettier girl than that,” said Mrs. 
Lowndes;' — “you’ll never catch her, working at home or riding 
along on that handsome little critter of hers, that she ha’ n’t a 
pleasant look and a smile for you, and as pretty behaved as can be. 
I never see her look sorrowful but once.” 

“Ain’t that a pretty horse?” said Mirny Lawson. 

u I've seen her look sorrowful though,” said Sarah Lowndes; 
“ I’ve been up at the house when Miss Fortune was hustling every 
body round, and as sharp as vinegar, and you’d think it would take 
Job’s patience to stand it; — and for all there wouldn’t be a bit of 
crossness in that child’s face, — she’d go round, and not say a word 
that wasn’t just so; — you’d ha’ thought her bread was all spread 


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with honey ; and every body knows it ain’t. I don’t see how she 
could do it, for my part. I know I couldn’t.” 

“ Ah, neighbour,” said Mrs. Yawse, “ Ellen looks higher than to 
please her aunt ; she tries to please her God ; and one can bear 
people’s words or looks when one is pleasing him. — She is a dear 
child !” 

“And there’s ’Brahm,” said Mrs. Van Brunt, — “he thinks the 
hull world of her. I never see him take so to any one. There 
ain’t an airthly thing he wouldn’t do to please her. If she was 
his own child I’ve no idee he could set her up more than he does.” 

“Very well!” said Nancy coming up, — “good reason! Ellen 
don’t set him up any, does she? I wish you’d just seen her once, 
the time when Miss Fortune was abed, — the way she’d look out 
for him ! Mr. Van Brunt’s as good as at home in that house sure 
enough; whoever’ s down stairs.” 

“ Bless her dear little heart !” said his mother. 

“ A good name is better than precious ointment.” 

August had come, and John was daily expected home. One 
morning Miss Fortune was in the lower kitchen, up to the elbows 
in making a rich fall cheese ; Ellen was busy up stairs, when her 
aunt shouted to her to “ come and see what was all that splashing 
and crashing in the garden.” Ellen ran out. 

“ Oh, aunt Fortune,” said she, — “ Timothy has broken down the 
fence and got in.” 

“ Timothy !” said Miss Fortune, — “ what Timothy ?” 

“ Why Timothy, the near ox,” said Ellen laughing ; — “ he has 
knocked down the fence over there where it was low, you know.” 

“ The near ox !” said Miss Fortune, — “ I wish he warn’t quite 
so near this time. Mercy ! he’ll be at the corn and over every 
thing. Run and drive him into the barnyard, can’t you?” 

But Ellen stood still and shook her head. “He wouldn’t stir 
for me,” she said ; — “ and besides I am as afraid of that ox as can 
be. If it was Clover I wouldn’t mind.” 

“ But he’ll have every bit of the corn eaten up in five minutes ! 
Where’s Mr. Van Brunt?” 

“ I heard him say he was going home till noon,” said Ellen. 

“ And Sam Larkens is gone to mill — and Johnny Low is laid up 
with the shakes. Very careless of Mr. Yan Brunt!” said Miss 
Fortune, drawing her arms out of the cheese-tub wringing off the 
whey, — “ I wish he’d mind his own oxen. There was no business 
to be a low place in the fence ! Well come along ! you ain’t afraid 
with me, I suppose.” 

Ellen followed, at a respectful distance. Miss Fortune however 
feared the face of neither man nor beast ; she pulled up a bean 
pole, and made such a show of fight that Timothy after looking at 
her a little, fairly turned tail, and marched out at the breach he 


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had made. Miss Fortune went after, and rested not till she had 
driven him quite into the meadow ; — get him into the barnyard she 
could not. 

“You ain’t worth a straw, Ellen!” said she when she came 
back; — “couldn’t you ha’ headed him and driv’ him into the 
barnyard ? Now that plaguy beast will just be back again by the 
time I get well to work. He ha’ n’t done much mischief yet — 
there’s Mr. Van Brunt’s salary he’s made a pretty mess of; I’m 
glad on’t! He should ha’ put potatoes, as I told him. I don’t 
know what’s to be done — I can’t be leaving my cheese to run and 
mind the garden every minute, if it was full of Timothys ; and 
you'd be scared if a mosquito flew at you ; — you had better go 
right off for Mr. Van Brunt and fetch him straight home — serve 
him right ! he has no business to leave things so. Bun along, — 
and don’t let the grass grow under your feet !” 

Ellen wisely thought her pony’s feet would do the business 
quicker. She ran and put on her gingham dress and saddled and 
bridled the Brownie in three minutes ; but before setting oif she 
had to scream to her aunt that Timothy was just coming round the 
corner of the barn again ; and Miss Fortune rushed out to the 
garden as Ellen and the Brownie walked down to the gate. 

The weather was tine, and Ellen thought with herself it was an 
ill wind that blew no good. She was getting a nice ride in the 
early morning, that she would not have had but for Timothy’s 
lawless behaviour. To ride at that time was particularly pleasant 
and rare ; and forgetting how she had left poor Miss Fortune be- 
tween the ox and the cheese-tub, Ellen and the Brownie cantered 
on in excellent spirits. 

She looked in vain as she passed his grounds to see Mr. Van 
Brunt in the garden or about the barn. She went on to the little 
gate of the courtyard, dismounted, and led the Brownie in. Here 
she was met by Nancy who came running from the way of the 
barnyard. 

“How d’ye do, Nancy?” said Ellen; — “where’s Mr. Van 
Brunt?” 

“Goodness! Ellen! — what do you want?” 

“I want Mr. Van Brunt, — where is he?” 

“ Mr. Van Brunt! — he’s out in the barn, — but he’s used him- 
self up.” 

“ Used himself up ! what do you mean ?” 

“Why he’s fixed himself in fine style; he’s fell through the 
trap-door and broke his leg.” 

“ Oh, Nancy !” screamed Ellen, — “he hasn’t! how could he?” 

“Why easy enough if he didn’t look where he was going, — - 
there’s so much hay on the floor. But it’s a pretty bad place to 
fall.” 


R 


2 


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“ How do you know his leg is broken?” 

“ ’Cause he says so, and any body with eyes can see it must be. 
I’m going over to Hitchcock’s to get somebody to come and help 
in with him ; for you know me and Mrs. Van Brunt ain’t Sam- 
sons.” 

11 Where is Mrs. Van Brunt?” 

“ She’s out there — in a terrible to do.” 

Nancy sped on to the Hitchcock’s; and greatly frightened and 
distressed Ellen ran over to the barn, trembling like an aspen. Mr. 



Van Brunt was lying in the lower floor, just where he had fallen ; 
one leg doubled under him in such a way as left no doubt it must 
be broken. He had lain there some time before any one found 
him ; and on trying to change his position when he saw his 
mother’s distress, he had fainted from pain. She sat by weeping 
most bitterly. Ellen could bear but one look at Mr. Van Brunt ; 
that one sickened her. She went up to his poor mother and get- 
ting down on her knees by her side put both arms round her 
neck. 


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“ Don't cry so, dear Mrs. Van Brunt,” (Ellen was crying so she 
could hardly speak herself,) — “pray don’t do so ! — he’ll be better 
— Oh, what shall we do ?” 

“Oh, ain’t it dreadful!” said poor Mrs. Yan Brunt; — “ oh, 
’Brahm ! ’Brahm ! my son ! — the best son that ever was to me — oh, 
to see him there — ain’t it dreadful ? he’s dying !” 

“Oh, no he isn’t,” said Ellen, — “ oh, no he isn’t ! — what shall we 
do, Mrs. Van Brunt? — what shall we do ?” 

“The doctor!” said Mrs. Van Brunt, — “he said ‘ send for the 
doctor;’ — but I can’t go, and there’s nobody to send. Oh, he’ll 
die ! — oh, my dear ’Brahm ! I wish it was me !” 

“ What doctor?” said Ellen ; — “ I’ll find somebody to go ; what 
doctor ?” 

“Dr. Gibson, he said; but he’s away off to Thirlwall ; and he’s 
been lying here all the morning a’ ready ! — nobody found him — he 
couldn’t make us hear. Oh, isn’t it dreadful !” 

“Oh, don’t cry so, dear Mrs. Yan Brunt,” said Ellen, pressing 
her cheek to the poor old lady’s ; “ he’ll be better — he will ! I’ve 
got the Brownie here and I’ll ride over to Mrs. Hitchcock’s and 
get somebody to go right away for the doctor. I won’t be long, — 
we’ll have him here in a little while ! don't feel so bad !” 

“ You’re a dear blessed darling !” said the old lady, hugging and 
kissing her, — “if ever there was one. Make haste dear, if you 
love him! — he loves you.” 

Ellen stayed but to give her another kiss. Trembling so that 
she could hardly stand she made her way back to the house, led 
out the Brownie again, and set off full speed for Mrs. Hitchcock’s. 
It was well her pony was sure-footed, for letting the reins hang, 
Ellen bent over his neck crying bitterly, only urging him now and 
then to greater speed ; till at length the feeling that she had some- 
thing to do came to her help. She straightened herself, gathered 
up her reins, and by the time she reached Mrs. Hitchcock’s was 
looking calm again, though very sad and very earnest. She did 
not alight, but stopped before the door and called Jenny. Jenny 
came out, expressing her pleasure. 

“Dear Jenny,” said Ellen, — “isn’t there somebody here that 
will go right off to Thirlwall for Dr. Gibson ? Mr. Van Brunt has 
broken his leg, I am afraid, and wants the doctor directly.” 

“Why dear Ellen,” said Jenny, “the men have just gone off 
this minute to Mrs. Yan Brunt’s. Nancy was here for them to 
come and help move him in a great hurry. How did it happen ? 
I couldn’t get any thing out of Nancy.” 

“ He fell down through the trap-door. But dear Jenny, isn’t 
there any body about? Oh,” said Ellen clasping her hands, — “ I 
want somebody to go for the doctor so much !” 

“ There ain’t a living soul !” said Jenny ; “ two of the men and 


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all the teams are ’way on the other side of the hill ploughing, and 
pa and June and Black Bill have gone over, as I told you ; but I 
don’t believe they’ll be enough. Where’s his leg broke?” 

“ I didn’t meet them,” said Ellen ; — “ I came away only a little 
while after Nancy.” 

“ They went ’cross lots I guess, — that’s how it was, and that’s 
the way Nancy got the start of you.” 

“ What shall I do ?” said Ellen. She could not bear to wait till 
they returned ; if she rode back she might miss them again, besides 
the delay ; and then a man on foot would make a long journey of 
it. Jenny told her of a house or two where she might try for a 
messenger ; but they were strangers to her ; she could not make up 
her mind to ask such a favour of them. Her friends were too far 
out of the way. 

“ I’ll go myself!” she said suddenly. “ Tell ’em, dear Jenny, 
will you, that I have gone for Dr. Gibson and that I’ll bring 
him back as quick as ever I can. I know the road to Thirl- 
wall.” 

“ But Ellen ! you mustn’t,” said Jenny ; — “ I am afraid to have 
you go all that way alone. Wait till the men come back, — they 
won’t be long.” 

“No I can’t, Jenny,” said Ellen, — “I can’t wait; I must go. 
You needn’t be afraid. Tell ’em I’ll be as quick as I can.” 

“ But see, Ellen !” cried Jenny as she was moving off, — “ I don’t 
like to have you !” 

“ I must, Jenny. Never mind.” 

“ But see, Ellen J” cried Jenny again, — “ if you will go — if you 
don’t find Dr. Gibson just get Dr. Marshchalk, — he’s every bit as 
good and some folks think he’s better; — he’ll do just as well. 
Good-by !” 

Ellen nodded and rode off. There was a little fluttering of the 
heart at taking so much upon herself ; she had never been to Thirl- 
wall but once since the first time she saw it. But she thought of 
Mr. Van Brunt, suffering for help which could not be obtained, and 
it was impossible for her to hesitate. “ I am sure I am doing 
right,” she thought, — “and what is there to be afraid of? If I 
ride two miles alone, why shouldn’t I four? — And I am doing 
right — God will take care of me.” Ellen earnestly asked him to 
do so ; and after that she felt pretty easy. “Now dear Brownie,” 
said she, patting his neck, — “ you and I have work to do to-day ; 
behave like a good little horse as you are.” The Brownie answered 
with a little cheerful kind of neigh, as much as to say, Never fear 
me ! — They trotted on nicely. 

But nothing could help that’s being a disagreeable ride. Do 
what she would, Ellen felt a little afraid when she found herself on 
a long piece of road where she had never been alone before. There 


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were not many houses on the way ; the few there were looked 
strange ; Ellen did not know exactly where she was, or how near 
the end of her journey ; it seemed a long one. She felt rather 
lonely ; — a little shy of meeting people, and yet a little unwilling 
to have the intervals between them so very long. She repeated to 
herself, “I am doing right — God will take care of me,” — still 
there was a nervous trembling at heart. Sometimes she would pat 
her pony’s neck and say, “Trot on, dear Brownie! we’ll soon be 
there!” — byway of cheering herself; for certainly the Brownie 
needed no cheering, and was trotting on bravely. Then the thought 
of Mr. Yan Brunt as she had seen him lying on the barn-floor, 
made her feel sick and miserable ; many tears fell during her ride 
when she remembered him. “ Heaven will be a good place,” 
thought little Ellen as she went ; — “ there will be no sickness, no 
pain, no sorrow ; but Mr. Yan Brunt ! — I wonder if he is fit to go 
to heaven?” — This was a new matter of thought and uneasiness, 
not now for the first time in Ellen’s mind ; and so the time passed 
till she crossed the bridge over the little river and saw the houses 
of Thirlwall stretching away in the distance. Then she felt com- 
fortable. 

Long before, she had bethought her that she did not know where 
to find Dr. Gibson, and had forgotten to ask Jenny. For one instant 
Ellen drew bridle, but it was too far to go back, and she recollected 
any body could tell her where the doctor lived. When she got to 
Thirlwall however Ellen found that she did not like to ask any 
body ; she remembered her old friend Mrs. Forbes of the Star inn, 
and resolved she would go there in the first place. She rode slowly 
up the street, and looking carefully till she came to the house. 
There was no mistaking it ; there was the very same big star over 
the front door that had caught her eye from the coach-window, and 
there was the very same boy or man, Sam, lounging on the side- 
walk. Ellen reigned up and asked him to ask Mrs. Forbes if she 
would be so good as to come out to her for one minute. Sam gave 
her along Yankee look and disappeared, coming back again directly 
with the landlady. 

“ How d’ye do, Mrs. Forbes?” said Ellen, holding out her hand ; 
— “don’t you know me? I am Ellen Montgomery — that you 
were so kind to, and gave me bread and milk, — when I first came 
here, — Miss Fortune’s ” 

“Oh, bless your dear little heart,” cried the landlady; “don’t 
I know you ! and ain’t I glad to see you ! I must have a kiss. Bless 
you ! I couldn’t mistake you in Jerusalem, but the sun was in my 
eyes in that way I was a’most blind. But ain’t you grown though ! 
Forget you ? I guess I ha’n’t ! there’s -one o’ your friends wouldn’t 
let me do that in a hurry ; if I ha’n’t seen you I’ve heered on you. 
But what are you sitting there in the sun for? come in — come in 

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— and I’ 11 give you something better than bread and milk this time. 
Come ! jump down.” 

“ Oh, I can’t, Mrs. Forbes,” said Ellen,— “ I am in a great 
hurry; — Mr. Yan Brunt has broken his leg, and I want to find the 
doctor.” 

u Mr. Yan Brunt !” cried the landlady. “ Broken his leg ! The 
land’s sakes ! how did he do that? he too !” 

“ He fell down through the trap-door in the barn ; and I want 
to get Dr. Gibson as soon as I can to come to him. Where does 
he live, Mrs. Forbes?” 

“Dr. Gibson? you won’t catch him to hum, dear; he’s flying 
round somewheres. But how come the trap-door to be open ? and 
how happened Mr. Yan Brunt not to see it afore he put his foot in 
it? Dear! I declare I’m real sorry to hear you tell. How hap- 
pened it, darlin’ ? I’m cur’ous to hear.” 

“ I don’t know, Mrs. Forbes,” said Ellen, — “ but oh, where shall 
I find Dr. Gibson ? Do tell me ! — he ought to be there now ; — oh, 
help me ! where shall I go for him ?” 

“ Well, I declare,” said the landlady stepping back a pace, — “ I 
don’ know as I can tell — there ain’t no sort o’ likelihood that he’s 
to hum at this time o’ day — Sam ! you lazy feller, you ha’ n’t got 
nothing to do but to gape at folks, ha’ you seen the doctor go by 
this forenoon?” 

“I seen him go down to Mis’ Perriman’s,” said Sam, — “Mis’ 
Perriman was a dyin’ — Jim Barstow said.” 

“ How long since?” said his mistress. 

But Sam shuffled and shuffled, looked every way but at Ellen or 
Mrs. Forbes, and “ didn’ know.” 

“Well then,” said Mrs. Forbes turning to Ellen, — “I don’ 
know but you might about as well go down to the post-office — but 
if I was you, I’d just get Dr. Marshchalk instead ! he’s a smarter 
man than Dr. Gibson any day in the year; and he ain’t quite so 
awful high neither, and that’s something. I'd get Dr. Marshchalk ; 
they say there ain’t the like o’ him in the country for settin’ bones ; 
it’s quite a gift; — he takes to it natural like.” 

But Ellen said Mr. Yan Brunt wanted Dr. Gibson, and if she 
could she must find him. 

“Well,” said Mrs. Forbes, “every one has their fancies ; — I 
wouldn’t let Dr. Gibson come near me with a pair of tongs; — but 
any how if you must have him, your best way is to go right 
straight down to the post-office and ask for him there, — maybe 
you’ll catch him.” 

“ Thank you, ma’am,” said Ellen ; — “where is the post-office?” 

“It’s that white-faced house down street,” said the landlady, 
pointing with her finger where Ellen saw no lack of white-faced 
houses, — “you see that big red store with the man standing out 


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in front? — the next white house below that is Mis’ Perriman’s ; 
just run right in and ask for Dr. Gibson. Good-by, dear, I’m real 
sorry you can’t come in that first white house.” 

Glad to get free, Ellen rode smartly down to the post-office. 
Nobody before the door ; there was nothing for it but to get off 
here and go in ; she did not know the people either. “ Never 
mind ! wait for me a minute, dear Brownie, like a good little horse 
as you are !” 

No fear of the Brownie. He stood as if he did not mean to 
budge again in a century. At first going in Ellen saw nobody in 
the post-office ; presently, at an opening in a kind of boxed-up 
place in one corner a face looked out and asked what was wanted. 

“ Is Dr. Gibson here ?” 

“No,” said the owner of the face, with a disagreeable kind of 
smile. 

“ Isn’t this Miss Perriman’s house?” 

“ You are in the right box, my dear, and no mistake,” said the 
young man, — “but then it ain’t Dr. Gibson’s house, you know.” 

“ Can you tell me, sir, where I can find him ?” 

“ Can’t indeed — the doctor never tells me where he is going, and 
I never ask him. I am sorry I didn’t this morning, for your sake.” 

The way, and the look, made the words extremely disagreeable, 
and furthermore Ellen had an uncomfortable feeling that neither 
was new to her. Where had she seen the man before ? she puz- 
zled herself to think. Where but in a dream had she seen that 
bold ill-favoured face, that horrible smile, that sandy hair, — she 
knew ! It was Mr. Saunders, the man who had sold her the merino 
at St. Clair and Fleury’s. She knew him; and she was very sorry 
to see that he knew her. All she desired now was to get out of 
the house and away ; but on turning she saw another man, older 
and respectable-looking, whose face encouraged her to ask again if 
Dr. Gibson was there. He was not, the man said ; he had been 
there and gone. 

“ Do you know where I should be likely to find him, sir?” 

“No, I don’t,” said he; — “ who wants him?” 

“ I want to see him, sir.” 

“ For yourself?” 

“No, sir; Mr. Van Brunt has broken his leg and wants Dr. 
Gibson to come directly and set it.” 

“ Mr. Van Brunt!” said he, — “ Farmer Van Brunt that lives 
down toward the Cat’s back ? I’m very sorry ! How did it happen ?” 

Ellen told as shortly as possible, and again begged to know where 
she might look for Dr. Gibson. 

“ Well,” said he, “ the best plan I can think of will be for you 
— How did you come here ?’ ’ 

“ I came on horseback, sir.” 


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392 

“Ah — well — the best plan will be for you to ride up to his 
house; maybe he’ll have left word there, and anyhow you can 
leave word for him to come down as soon as he gets home. Do 
you know where the doctor lives ?” 

“ No, sir.” 

“ Come here,” said he, pulling her to the door, — “ you can’t see 
it from here ; but you must ride up street till you have passed two 
churches, one on the right hand first, and then a good piece be- 
yond you’ll come to another red brick one on the left hand; — 
and Dr. Gibson lives in the next block but one after that, on the 
other side ; — any body will tell you the house. Is that your 
horse ?” 

“ Yes, sir. I’m very much obliged to you.” 

“ Well I will say ! — if you ha’ n’t the prettiest fit out in Thirl- 
wall — shall I help you ? will you have a cheer?” 

“No, I thank you, sir; I’ll bring him up to this step; it will 
do just as well. I am very much obliged to you, sir.” 

He did not seem to hear her thanks ; he was all eyes ; and 
with his clerk stood looking after her till she was out of sight. 

Poor Ellen found it a long way up to the doctor’s. The post- 
office was near the lower end of the town and the doctor’s house 
was near the upper ; she passed one church, and then the other, 
but there was a long distance between, or what she thought so. 
Happily the Brownie did not seem tired at all ; his little mistress 
was tired and disheartened too. And there, all this time, was poor 
Mr. Van Brunt lying without a doctor ! She could not bear to 
think of it. 

She jumped down when she came to the block she had been 
told of, and easily found the house where Dr. Gibson lived. She 
knocked at the door. A grey-haired woman with a very dead-and- 
alive face presented herself. Ellen asked for the doctor. 

“ He ain’t to hum.” 

“ When will he be at home ?” 

“ Couldn’t say.” 

“ Before dinner ?” 

The woman shook her head — “ Guess not till late in the day.” 

“ Where is he gone ?” 

“ He is gone to Babcock — gone to * attend a consummation,’ I 
guess, he told me — Babcock is a considerable long way.” 

Ellen thought a minute. 

“ Can you tell me where Dr. Marshchalk lives ?” 

“ I guess you’d better wait till Dr. Gibson comes back, ha’n’t 
you?” said the woman coaxingly ; — “he’ll be along by and by. 
If you’ll leave me your name I’ll give it to him.” 

“ I cannot wait,” said Ellen, — “ I am in a dreadful hurry. Will 
you be so good as to tell me where Dr. Marshchalk lives ?” 


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393 


“ Well — if so be you’re in such a takin’ you can’t wait — you 
know where Miss Forbes lives ?’ ’ 

“ At the inn ? — the Star — yes.” 

“ He lives a few doors this side o’ her’n ; you’ll know it the first 
minute you set your eyes on it — it’s painted a bright yaller.” 

Ellen thanked her, once more mounted, and rode down the 
street. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

And he had ridden o’er dale and down 
By eight o’clock in the day, 

When he was ware of a bold Tanner, 

Came riding along the way. 

Old Ballad. 

The yellow door, as the old woman had said, was not to be mis- 
taken. Again Ellen dismounted and knocked ; then she heard a 
slow step coming along the entry, and the pleasant kind face of 
Miss Janet appeared at the open door. It was a real refreshment, 
and Ellen wanted one. 

“ Why it’s dear little — ain’t it? — her that lives down to Miss 
Fortune Emerson’s? — yes, it is : — come in, dear; I’m very glad to 
see you. How’s all at your house ?” 

“ Is the doctor at home, ma’am ?” 

“No dear, he ain’t to home just this minute, but he’ll be in 
directly; Come in ; — is that your horse? — just hitch him to the 
post there so he won’t run away, and come right in. Who did you 
come along with?” 

“ Nobody, ma’am ; I came alone,” said Ellen while she obeyed 
Miss Janet’s directions. 

“ Alone ! — on that ’ere little skittish creeter ? — he’s as handsome 
as a picture too — why do tell if you warn’t afraid? it a’ most scares 
me to think of it.” 

“I was a little afraid,” said Ellen, as she followed Miss Janet 
along the entry, — “ but I couldn’t help that. You think the doc- 
tor will soon be in, ma’am ?” 

“Yes, dear, sure of it,” said Miss Janet, kissing Ellen and 
taking off her bonnet; — “ he won’t be five minutes, for it’s a’ most 
dinner time. What’s the matter dear ? is Miss Forttine sick 
again ?’ ’ 

“No, ma’am,” said Ellen sadly, — “Mr. Van Brunt has fallen 
through the trap-door in the barn and broken his leg.” 

“Oh!” cried the old lady with a face of real horror, — “you 
don’t tell me ! Fell through the trap-door ! and he ain’t a light 


394 


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weight neither ; — oh, that is a lamentable event ! And how is the 
poor old mother, dear?” 

“She is very much troubled, ma’am,” said Ellen, crying at the 
remembrance ; — “ and he has been lying ever since early this 
morning without anybody to set it ; I have been going round and 
round for a doctor this ever so long.” 

“ Why, warn’t there nobody to come but .you, you poor lamb?” 
said Miss Janet. 

“No, ma’am ; nobody quick enough; and I had the Brownie 
there, and so I came.” 

“Well, cheer up, dear! the doctor will be here now and we’ll 
send him right off; he won’t be long about his dinner, I’ll engage. 
Come and set in this big cheer — do ! — it’ll rest you ; I see you’re 
a’most tired out, and it ain’t a wonder. There — don’t that feel 
better? now I’ll give you a little sup of dinner, for you won’t want 
to swallow it at the rate Leander will his’n. Dear! dear! — to 
think of poor Mr. Van Brunt. He’s a likely man too; — I’m very 
sorry for him and his poor mother. A kind body she is as ever the 
sun shined upon.” 

“ And so is he,” said Ellen. 

“Well, so I dare say,” said Miss Janet, — “but I don’t know so 
much about him ; howsever he’s got every body’s good word as 
far as I know ; — he’s a likely man.” 

The little room in which Miss Janet had brought Ellen was very 
plainly furnished indeed, but as neat as hands could make it. The 
carpet was as crumbless and lintless as if meals were never taken 
there nor work seen ; and yet a little table ready set for dinner for- 
bade the one conclusion, and a huge basket of naperies in one 
corner showed that Miss Janet’s industry did not spend itself in 
housework alone. Before the fire stood a pretty good-sized kettle, 
and a very appetizing smell came from it to Ellen’s nose. In spite 
of sorrow and anxiety her ride had made her hungry. It was not 
without pleasure that she saw her kind hostess arm herself with a 
deep plate and tin dipper, and carefully taking off the pot-cover so 
that no drops might fall on the hearth, proceed to ladle out a 
goodly supply of what Ellen knew was that excellent country dish 
called pot-pie. Excellent it is when well made, and that was Miss 
Janet’s. The pieces of crust were white and light like new bread ; 
the very tit-bits of the meat she culled out for Ellen ; and the 
soup gravy poured over all would have met even Miss Fortune’s 
wishes, from its just degree of richness and exact seasoning. 
Smoking hot it was placed before Ellen on a little stand by her 
easy chair, with some nice bread and butter ; and presently Miss 
Janet poured her out a cup of tea; “for,” she said, “Leander 
never could take his dinner without it.” Ellen’s appetite needed 
no silver fork. Tea and pot-pie were never better liked ; yet Miss 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 


395 


Janet’s enjoyment was perhaps greater still. She sat talking and 
looking at her little visitor with secret but immense satisfaction. 

“ Have you heard what fine doings we’re a going to have here by 
and by ?” said she. “ The doctor’s tired of me ; he’s going to get 
a new housekeeper ; — he’s going to get married some of these days.” 

“ Is he !” said Ellen. “ Not to Jenny !” 

“Yes indeed he is — to Jenny — Jenny Hitchcock; and a nice 
little wife she’ll make him. You’re a great friend of Jenny, I 
know.” 

“How soon?” said Ellen. 

“ Oh, not just yet — by and by — after we get a little smarted 
up, I guess ; — before a great while. Don’t you think he’ll be a 
happy man ?” 

Ellen could not help wondering, as the doctor just then came in 
and she looked up at his unfortunate three-cornered face, whether 
Jenny would be a happy woman ? But as people often do, she 
only judged from the outside ; Jenny had not made such a bad 
choice after all. 

The doctor said he would go directly to Mr. Van Brunt after he 
had been over to Mrs. Sibnorth’s ; it wouldn’t be a minute. Ellen 
meant to ride back in his company ; and having finished her dinner 
waited now only for him. But the one minute passed — two min- 
utes — ten — twenty — she waited impatiently, but he came not. 

“ I’ll tell you how it must be,” said his sister, — “ he’s gone off" 
without his dinner calculating to get it at Miss Hitchcock’s, — he’d 
be glad of the chance. That’s how it is, dear; and you’ll have to 
ride home alone ; I’m real sorry. S’ pose you stop till evening, and 
I’ll make the doctor go along with you. But oh, dear ! maybe he 
wouldn’t be able to neither ; he’s got to go up to that tiresome Mrs. 
Kobin’s; it’s too bad. Well, take good care of yourself, darling ; 
— couldn’t you stop till it’s cooler? — well, come and see me as soon 
as you can again, but don’t come without some one else along ! 
Good-by ! I wish I could keep you.” 

She went to the door to see her mount, and smiled and nodded 
her off. 

Ellen was greatly refreshed with her rest and her dinner; it 
grieved her that the Brownie had not fared as well. All the re- 
freshment that kind words and patting could give him, she gave ; 
promised him the freshest of water and the sweetest of hay when 
he should reach home ; and begged him to keep up his spirits and 
hold on for a little longer. It may be doubted whether the Brownie 
understood the full sense of her words, but he probably knew what 
the kind tones and gentle hand meant. He answered cheerfully ; 
threw up his head and gave a little neigh, as much as to say, he 
wasn’t going to mind a few hours of sunshine; and trotted on as 
if he knew his face was toward home, — which no doubt he did. 


396 


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Luckily it was not a very hot day ; for August, it was remarkably 
cool and beautiful ; indeed, there was little very hot weather ever 
known in Thirl wall. Ellen’s heart felt easier, now that her busi- 
ness was done ! and when she had left the town behind her and 
was again in the fields, she was less timid than she had been before ; 
she was going toward home ; that makes a great difference ; and 
every step was bringing her nearer. “ I am glad I came after all,” 
she thought; — “but I hope I shall never have to do such a thing 
again. But I am glad I came.” 

She had no more than crossed the little bridge, however, when 
she saw what brought her heart into her mouth. It was Mr. Saun- 
ders, lolling under a tree. What could he have come there for at 
that time of day ? A vague feeling crossed her mind that if she 
could only get past him she should pass a danger; she thought to 
ride by without seeming to see him, and quietly gave the Brownie 
a pat to make him go fkster. But as she drew near Mr. Saunders 
rose up, came to the middle of the road, and taking hold of her 
bridle, checked her pony’s pace so that he could walk alongside ; 
to Ellen’s unspeakable dismay. 

“ What’s kept you so long?” said he ; — “ I’ve been looking out 
for you this great while. Had hard work to find the doctor?” 

“Won’t you please to let go of my horse,” said Ellen, her 
heart beating very fast ; — “ 1 am in a great hurry to get home ; — 
please don’t keep me.” 

“ Oh, I want to see you a little,” said Mr. Saunders ; — “ you 
ain’t in such a hurry to get away from me as that comes to, are 
you?” 

Ellen was silent. 

“ It’s quite a long time since I saw you last,” said he ; — “ how 
have the merinoes worn?” 

Ellen could not bear to look at his face and did not see the ex- 
pression which went with these words, yet she felt it. 

“They have worn very well,” said she, “but I want to get 
home very much — please let me go.” 

“ Not yet — not yet,” said he, — “ oh, no, not yet. I want to 
talk to you ; why, what are you in such a devil of a hurry for ? I 
came out on purpose ; do you think I am going to have all my 
long waiting for nothing ?” 

Ellen did not know what to say ; her heart sprang with a name- 
less pang to the thought, if she ever got free from this ! Mean- 
while she was not free. 

“ Whose horse is that you’re on ?” 

“ Mine,” said Ellen. 

“ Your’n ! that’s a likely story. I guess he ain’t your’ n, and 
so you won’t mind if I touch him up a little ; — I want to see how 
well you can sit on a horse.” 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 


397 


Passing his arm through the bridle as he said these words, Mr. 
Saunders led the pony down to the side of the road where grew a 
clump of high bushes; and with some trouble cut off a long 
stout sapling. Ellen looked in every direction while he was doing 
this, despairing, as she looked, of aid from any quarter of the 
broad quiet open country. Oh, for wings ! But she could not 
leave the Brownie if she had them. 

Returning to the middle of the road, Mr. Saunders amused him- 
self as they walked along with stripping off all the leaves and little 
twigs from his sapling, leaving it when done a very good imitation 
of an ox-whip in size and length, with a fine lash-like point. Ellen 
watched him in an ecstasy of apprehension, afraid alike to speak 
or to be silent. 

“ There ! what do you think of that ?” said he, giving it two or 
three switches in the air to try its suppleness and toughness ; — 
•“ don’t that look like a whip ? Now we’ll see how he’ll go !” 

“ Please don’t do any thing with it,” said Ellen earnestly ; — “ I 
never touch him with a whip, — he doesn’t need it, — he isn’t used 
to it; pray, pray do not!” 

“ Oh, we’ll just tickle him a little with it,” said Mr. Saunders 
coolly, — “ I want to see how well you’ll sit him ; — just make him 
caper a little bit.” 

He accordingly applied the switch lightly to the Brownie's heels, 
enough to annoy without hurting him. The Brownie showed 
signs of uneasiness, quitted his quiet pace, and took to little starts 
and springs and whisking motions, most unpleasing to his rider. 

“ Oh, do not!” cried Ellen, almost beside herself, — “he’s very 
spirited, and I don’t know what he will do if you trouble him.” 

“You let me take care of that,” said Mr. Saunders; — “ if he 
troubles me I’ll give it to him ! If he rears up, only you catch 
hold of his mane and hold on tight, and you won’t fall off; — I 
want to see him rear.” 

“But you’ll give him had tricks!” said Ellen. “Oh, pray 
don’t do so ! Its very bad for him to be teased. I am afraid he 
will kick if you do so, and he’d be ruined if he got a habit of 
kicking. Oh, 'please let us go !” said she with the most acute 
accent of entreaty, — “ I want to be home.” 

“You keep quiet,” said Mr. Saunders coolly; — “if he kicks 
I’ll give him such a lathering as he never had yet ; he won’t do it 
but once. I ain’t a going to hurt him, but I am a going to make 
him rear; — no, I won’t, — I’ll make him leap over a rail, the first 
bar-place we come to ; that’ll be prettier.” 

“ Oh, you musn’t do that,” said Ellen ; — “ I have not learned to 
leap yet ; I couldn’t keep on ; you musn’t do that if you please.” 

“ You just hold fast and hold your tongue. Catch hold of his 
ears, and you’ll stick on fast enough ; if you can’t you may get 

34 


398 THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 

down, for I am going to make him take the leap whether you will 
or no.” 

Ellen feared still more to get oft' and leave the Brownie to her 
tormentor’s mercy than to stay where she was and take her 
chance. She tried in vain, as well as she could, to soothe her 
horse ; the touches of the whip coming now in one place and now 
in another, and some of them pretty sharp, he began to grow very 
frisky indeed ; and she began to be very much frightened for fear 
she should suddenly be jerked off. With a good deal of presence 
of mind, though wrought up to a terrible pitch of excitement and 
fear, Ellen gave her best attention to keeping her seat as the 
Brownie sprang and started and jumped to one side and the other; 
Mr. Saunders holding the bridle as loose as possible so as give him 
plenty of room. For some little time he amused himself with this 
game, the horse growing more and more irritated. At length a 
smart stroke of the whip upon his haunches made the Brownie 
spring in a way that brought Ellen’s heart into her mouth, and 
almost threw her off. 

u Oh, don’t!” cried Ellen, bursting into tears for the first time, 
— she had with great effort commanded them back until now ; — 
“poor Brownie! — How can you! Oh, please let us go ! — please 
let us go !” 

For one minute she dropped her face in her hands. 

“ Be quiet !” said Mr. Saunders. “ Here’s a bar-place — now for 
the leap !” 

Ellen wiped away her tears, forced back those that were coming, 
and began the most earnest remonstrance and pleading with Mr. 
Saunders that she knew how to make. He paid her no sort of 
attention. He led the Brownie to the side of the road, let down 
all the bars but the lower two, let go the bridle, and stood a 
little off prepared with his whip to force the horse to take the 
spring. 

“ I tell you I shall fall,” said Ellen, reining him back. “ How 
can you be so cruel ! — I want to go home !” 

“ Well, you ain’t a going home yet. Get off, if you are afraid.” 

But though trembling in every nerve from head to foot, Ellen 
fancied the Brownie was safer so long as he had her on his back ; 
she would not leave him. She pleaded her best, which Mr. 
Saunders heard as if it was amusing, and without making any 
answer kept the horse capering in front of the bars, pretending 
every minute he was going to whip him up to take the leap. His 
object however was merely to gratify the smallest of minds by 
teasing a child he had a spite against ; he had no intention to risk 
breaking her bones by a fall from her horse ; so in time he had 
enough of the bar-place ; took the bridle again and walked on. 
Ellen drew breath a little more freely. 


THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD. 399 

“ Did you hear how I handled your old gentleman after that 
time?” said Mr. Saunders. 

Ellen made no answer. 

“No one ever affronts me that don’t hear news of it afterwards, 
and so he found to his cost. I paid him off, to my heart’s content. 
I gave the old fellow a lesson to behave in future. I forgive him 
now entirely. By the way I’ve a little account to settle with you 
— didn’t you ask Mr. Perriman this morning if Dr. Gibson was in 
the house ?” 

“ I don’t know who it was,” said Ellen. 

“ Well, hadn’t I told you just before he warn’t there?” 

Ellen was silent. 

“ What did you do that for, eh? Didn’t you believe me ?” 

Still she did not speak. 

“ I say !” said Mr. Saunders, touching the Brownie as he spoke, 
— “ did you think I told you a lie about it? — eh?” 

“ I didn’t know but he might be there,” Ellen forced herself to 
say. 

“ Then you didn’t believe me?” said he, always with that same 
smile upon his face ; Ellen knew that. 

11 Now that warn’t handsome of you — and I’m a going to punish 
you for it, somehow or ’nother ; but it ain’t pretty to quarrel with 
ladies, so Brownie and me’ll settle it together. You won’t mind 
that I dare say.” 

“ What are you going to do?” said Ellen, as he once more drew 
her down to the side of the fence. 

“ Get off and you’ll see,” said he, laughing ; — “ get off and you’ll 
see.” 

“ What do you want to do?” repeated Ellen, though scarce able 
to speak the words. 

“ I’m just going to tickle Brownie a little, to teach you to believe 
honest folks when they speak the truth ; get off!” 

“ No I won’t,” said Ellen, throwing both arms round the neck of 
her pony; — “ poor Brownie ! — you shan’t do it. He hasn’t done 
any harm, nor I either ; you are a bad man !” 

“Get off!” repeated Mr. Saunders. 

“ I will not!” said Ellen, still clinging fast. 

“ Very well,” said he coolly, — “ then I will take you off ; it don’t 
make much difference. We’ll go along a little further till I find a 
nice stone for you to sit down upon. If you had got off then I 
wouldn’t ha’ done much to him, but I’ll give it to him now ! If 
he hasn’t been used to a whip he’ll know pretty well what it means 
by the time I have done with him ; and then you may go home as 
fast as you can.” 

It is very likely Mr. Saunders would have been as good, or as 
bad, as his word. His behaviour to Ellen in the store at New 


400 


THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD. 


York, and the measures taken by the old gentleman who had be- 
friended her, had been the cause of his dismissal from the employ 
of Messrs. St. Clair and Fleury. Two or three other attempts to 
get into business had come to nothing, and he had been obliged to 
return to his native town. Ever since, Ellen and the old gentle- 
man had lived in his memory as objects of the deepest spite; — the 
one for interfering, the other for having been the innocent cause ; 
and he no sooner saw her in the post-office than he promised him- 
self revenge, such revenge as only the meanest and most cowardly 
spirit could have taken pleasure in. His best way of distressing 
Ellen, he found, was through her horse ; he had almost satisfied 
himself ; but very naturally his feeling of spite had grown stronger 
and blunter with indulgence, and he meant to wind up with such a 
treatment of her pony, real or seeming, as he knew would give 
great pain to the pony’s mistress. He was prevented. 

As they went slowly along, Ellen still clasping the Brownie’s 
neck and resolved to cling to him to the last, Mr. Saunders making 
him caper in a way very uncomfortable to her, one was too busy 
and the other too deafened by fear to notice the sound of fast-ap- 
proaching hoofs behind them. It happened that John Humphreys 
had passed the night at Ventnor • ; and having an errand to do for 
a friend at Thirlwall had taken that road, which led him but a few 
miles out of his way, and was now at full speed on his way home. 
He had never made the Brownie’s acquaintance, and did not rec- 
ognise Ellen as he came up ; but in passing them some strange 
notion crossing his mind he wheeled his horse round directly in 
front of the astonished pair. Ellen quitted her pony’s neck, and 
stretching out both arms toward him exclaimed, almost shrieked, 
“ Oh, John ! John ! send him away ! make him let me go !” 

“ What are you about, sir ?” said the new-comer sternly. 

“It’s none of your business !” answered Mr. Saunders, in whom 
rage for the time overcame cowardice. 

“Take your hand off the bridle !” — with a slight touch of the 
riding-whip upon the hand in question. 

“ Not for you, brother,” said Mr. Saunders sneeringly ; — “ I’ll 
walk with any lady I’ve a mind to. Look out for yourself!” 

“We will dispense with your further attendance,” said John 
coolly. “ Bo you hear me ? — do as I order you !” 

The speaker did not put himself in a passion, and Mr. Saunders, 
accustomed for his own part to make bluster serve instead of 
prowess, despised a command so calmly given. — Ellen, who knew 
the voice, and still better could read the eye, drew conclusions very 
different. She was almost breathless with terror. Saunders was 
enraged and mortified at an interference that promised to baffle 
him ; he was a stout young man, and judged himself the stronger 
of the two, and took notice besides that the stranger had nothing 



“ Ellen hardly saw how, it was so quick.” 

Page 401. 















































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401 


in his hand but a slight riding- whip. He answered very insolently 
and with an oath ; and John saw that he was taking the bridle in 
his left hand and shifting his sapling whip so as to bring the club 
end of it uppermost. The next instant he aimed a furious blow at 
his adversary’s horse. The quick eye and hand of the rider disap- 
pointed that with a sudden swerve. In another moment, and 
Ellen hardly saw how, it was so quick, — John had dismounted, 
taken Mr. Saunders by the collar, and hurled him quite over into 
the gully at the side of the road, where he lay at full length with- 
out stirring. 

“ Ride on, Ellen !” said her deliverer. 

She obeyed. He stayed a moment to say to his fallen adversary 
a few words of pointed warning as to ever repeating his offence ; 
then remounted and spurred forward to join Ellen. All her power 
of keeping up was gone, now that the necessity was over. Her 
head was once more bowed on her pony’s neck, her whole frame 
shaking with convulsive sobs she could scarce with great effort 
keep from crying out aloud. 

“ Elbe !” — said her adopted brother, in a voice that could hardly 
be known for the one that had last spoken. She had no words, but 
as he gently took one of her hands, the convulsive squeeze it gave 
him showed the state of nervous excitement she was in. It was 
very long before his utmost efforts could soothe her, or she could 
command herself enough to tell him her story. When at last told, 
it was with many tears. 

“ Oh, how could he ! how could he !” said poor Ellen ; — “ how 
could he do so ! — it was very hard !” 

An involuntary touch of the spurs made John’s horse start. 

“ But what took you to Thirl wall alone?” said he; — “ you have 
not told me that yet.” 

Ellen went back to Timothy’s invasion of the cabbages, and 
gave him the whole history of the morning. 

“I thought when I was going for the doctor, at first,” said she, 
— “ and then afterwards when I had found him, what a good thing 
it was that Timothy broke down the garden fence and got in this 
morning ; for if it had not been for that I should not have gone to 
Mr. Van Brunt’s ; — and then again after that I thought, if he only 
hadn’t!” 

u Little things often draw after them long trains of circum- 
stances,” said John, — “ and that shows the folly of those people who 
think that Gfod does not stoop to concern himself about trifles ; — 
life, and much more than life, may hang upon the turn of a hand. 
But Ellen, you must ride no more alone. — Promise me that you 
will not.” 

“ I will not to Thirl wall, certainly,” said Ellen, — “ but mayn’t I 
to Alice’s? — how can I help it?” 

34 * 


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402 


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“Well — to Alice’s — that is a safe part of the country but I 
should like to know a little more of your horse before trusting you 
even there.” 

“ Of the Brownie ?” said Ellen ; — “ Oh, he is as good as he can 
be ; you need not be afraid of him ; he has no trick at all ; there 
never was such a good little horse.” 

John smiled. “ How do you like mine ?” said he. 

“ Is that your new one ? Oh, what a beauty ! — Oh, me, what a 
beauty ! I didn’t look at him before. Oh, I like him very much ! 
he’s handsomer than the Brownie ; — do you like him ?” 

“ Very well ! — this is the first trial I have made of him. I was 
at Mr. Marshman’s last night, and they detained me this morning, 
or I should have been here much earlier. I am very well satisfied 
with him, so far.” 

“ And if you had not been detained !” — said Ellen. 

“ Yes, Elbe— I should not have fretted at my late breakfast and 
having to try Mr. Marshman’s favourite mare, if I had known what 
good purpose the delay was to serve. I wish I could have been 
here half an hour sooner, though.” 

“ Is his name the Black Prince?” said Ellen, returning to the 
horse. 

“Yes, I believe so ; but you shall change it, Ellie, if you can 
find one you like better.” 

“ Oh, I cannot ! — I like that very much. How beautiful he is ! 
Is he good ?” 

“ I hope so,” said John, smiling; — “if he is not I shall be at 
the pains to make him so. We are hardly acquainted yet.” 

Ellen looked doubtfully at the black horse and his rider, and 
patting the Brownie’s neck, observed with great satisfaction that 
he was very good. 

John had been riding very slowly on Ellen’s account; they now 
mended their pace. He saw however that she still looked miser- 
ably, and exerted himself to turn her thoughts from every thing 
disagreeable. Much to her amusement he rode round her two or 
three times, to view her horse and show her his own ; commended 
the Brownie ; praised her bridle hand ; corrected several things 
about her riding ; and by degrees engaged her in a very animated 
conversation. Ellen roused up ; the colour came back to her cheeks ; 
and when they reached home and rode round to the glass door she 
looked almost like herself. 

She sprang olf as usual without waiting for any help. John 
scarce saw that she had done so, when Alice’s cry of joy brought 
him to the door, and from that together they went in to their 
father’s study. Ellen was left alone on the lawn. Something was 
the matter ; for she stood with swimming eyes and a trembling lip, 
rubbing her stirrup, which really needed no polishing, and forget- 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 


403 


ting the tired horses, which would have had her sympathy at any 
other time. What was the matter? Only — that Mr. John had 
forgotten the kiss he always gave her on going or coming. Ellen 
was jealous of it as a pledge of sistership, and could not want it; 
and though she tried as hard as she could to get her face in order, 
so that she might go in and meet them, somehow it seemed to take 
a great while. She was still busy with her stirrup, when she sud- 
denly felt two hands on her shoulders, and looking up received the 
very kiss the want of which she had been lamenting. But John 
saw the tears in her eyes, and asked her, she thought with some- 
what of a comical look, what the matter was ? Ellen was ashamed 
to tell, but he had her there by the shoulders, and besides, what- 
ever that eye demanded she never knew how to keep back, so with 
some difficulty she told him. 

“ You are a foolish child, Elbe,” said he gently, and kissing her 
again. “ Run in out of the sun while I see to the horses.’ ’ 

Ellen ran in, and told her long story to Alice ; and then feeling 
very weary and weak she sat on the sofa and lay resting in her 
arms in a state of the most entire and unruffled happiness. Alice 
however after a while transferred her to bed, thinking with good 
reason that a long sleep would be the best thing for her. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

Now is the pleasant time, 

The cool, the silent, save where silence yields 
To the night-warbling bird ; that now awake, 

Tunes sweetest her love-laboured song now reigns 
Full orbed the moon, and with more pleasing light 
Shadowy, sets off the face of things. 

Milton. 

When Ellen came out of Alice’s room again it was late in the 
afternoon. The sun was so low that the shadow of the house had 
crossed the narrow lawn and mounted up near to the top of the 
trees ; but on them he was still shining brightly, and on the broad 
landscape beyond, which lay open to view through the gap in the 
trees. The glass door was open ; the sweet summer air and the 
sound of birds and insects and fluttering leaves floated into the 
room, making the stillness musical. On the threshold pussy sat 
crouched, with his forefeet doubled under his breast, watching 
with intense gravity the operations of Margery, who was setting 
the table on the lawn just before his eyes. Alice was paring 
peaches. 

“ Oh, we are going to have tea out of doors, aren’t we !” said 


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Ellen. “ I’m very glad. What a lovely evening, isn’t it ? Just 
look at pussy, will you, Alice? don’t you believe he knows what 
Margery is doing? — Why didn’t you call me to go along with you 
after peaches?” 

“I thought you were doing the very best thing you possibly 
could, Elbe, my dear. How do you do?” 

“ Oh, nicely now ! Where’s Mr. John? I hope he won’t ask 
for my last drawing to-night, — I want to fix the top of that tree 
before he sees it.” 

“ Fix the top of your tree, you little Yankee?” said Alice; — 
“ what do you think John would say to that ? — unfix it you mean ; 
it is too stiff already, isn’t it?” 

“ Well, what shall I say?” said Ellen laughing. “I am sorry 
that is Yankee, for I suppose one must speak English. — I want to 
do something to my tree, then. — Where is he, Alice?” 

“ He is gone down to Mr. Van Brunt’s, to see how he is, and to 
speak to Miss Fortune about you on his way back.” 

“ Oh, how kind of him! — he’s very good; that is just what I 
want to know ; but I am sorry, after this long ride ” 

“ He don’t mind that , Ellie. He’ll be home presently.” 

. “ How nice those peaches look ; — they are as good as straw- 
berries, don’t you think so ? — better, — I don’t know which is best; 
— but Mr. John likes these best, don’t he ? Now you’ve done ! — 
shall I set them on the table ? — and here’s a pitcher of splendid 
cream, Alice !” 

" You had better not tell John so, or he will make you define 
splendid 

John came back in good time, and brought word that Mr. Van 
Brunt was doing very well, so far as could be known ; also, that 
Miss Fortune consented to Ellen’s remaining where she was. He 
wisely did not say, however, that her consent had been slow to gain 
till he had hinted at his readiness to provide a substitute for Ellen’s 
services ; on which Miss Fortune had instantly declared she did not 
want her and she might stay as long as she pleased. This was all 
that was needed to complete Ellen’s felicity. 

“ Wasn’t your poor horse too tired to go out again this after- 
noon, Mr. John ?” 

“ I did not ride him, Ellie ; I took yours.” 

“The Brownie! — did you? — I’m very glad! How did you 
like him ? But perhaps he was tired a little, and you couldn’t tell 
so well to-day.” 

“ He was not tired with any work you had given him, Ellie ; — 
perhaps he may be a little now.” 

“ Why ?” said Ellen, somewhat alarmed. 

“ T have been trying him ; and instead of going quietly along 
the road we have been taking some of the fences in our way. As 


THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD. 405 

I intend practising you at the bar, I wished to make sure in the 
first place that he knew his lesson.” 

“ Well, how did he do ?” 

“ Perfectly well — I believe he is a good little fellow. I wanted 
to satisfy myself if he was fit to be trusted with you ; and I rather 
think Mr. Marsliman has taken care of that.” 

The whole wall of trees was in shadow when the little family 
sat down to table ; but there was still the sun-lit picture behind ; 
and there was another kind of sunshine in every face at the table. 
Quietly happy the whole four, or at least the whole three, were ; 
first, in being together, — after that, in all things besides. Never 
was tea so refreshing, or bread and butter so sweet, or the song of 
birds so delightsome. When the birds were gone to their nests, 
the cricket and grasshopper and tree-toad and katy-did, and name- 
less other songsters, kept up a concert, — nature’s own, — in deli- 
cious harmony with woods and flowers, and summer breezes and 
evening light. Ellen’s cup of enjoyment was running over. 
From one beautiful thing to another her eye wandered, — from 
one joy to another her thoughts went, — till her full heart fixed on 
the God who had made and given them all, and that Redeemer 
whose blood had been their purchase-money. From the dear 
friends beside her, the best-loved she had in the world, she thought 
of the one dearer yet from whom death had separated her ; — yet 
living still, — and to whom death would restore her, thanks to Him 
who had burst the bonds of death and broken the gates of the 
grave, and made a way for his ransomed to pass over. And the 
thought of Him was the joy fullest of all ! 

“ You look happy, Ellie,” said her adopted brother. 

“So I am,” said Ellen, smiling a very bright smile. 

“ What are you thinking about ?” 

But John saw it would not do to press his question. 

“ You remind me,” said he, “of some old fairy story that my 
childish ears received, in which the fountains of the sweet and 
bitter waters of life were said to stand very near each other, and 
to mingle their streams but a little way from their source. Your 
tears and smiles seem to be brothers and sisters ; — whenever we 
see one we may be sure the other is not far off.” 

“My dear Jack,” said Alice, laughing, — “what an unhappy 
simile ! Are brothers and sisters always found like that ?” 

“ I wish they were,” said John, sighing and smiling; — “but 
my last words had nothing to do with my simile as you call it.” 

When tea was over, and Margery had withdrawn the things and 
taken away the table, they still lingered in their places. It was far 
too pleasant to go in. Mr. Humphreys moved his chair to the side 
of the house, and throwing a handkerchief over his head to defend 
him from the mosquitoes, a few of which were buzzing about, he 


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either listened, meditated, or slept ; — most probably one of the two 
latter ; for the conversation was not very loud nor very lively ; it 
was happiness enough merely to breathe so near each other. The 
sun left the distant fields and hills ; soft twilight stole through the 
woods, down the gap, and over the plain ; the grass lost its green ; 
the wall of trees grew dark and dusky ; and very faint and dim 
showed the picture that was so bright a little while ago. As they 
sat quite silent, listening to what nature had to say to them, or 
letting fancy and memory take their way, the silence was broken — 
hardly broken — by the distinct far-off cry of a whip-poor-will. 
Alice grasped her brother’s arm, and they remained motionless, 
while it came nearer, nearer, — then quite near, — with its clear, 
wild, shrill, melancholy note sounding close by them again and 
again, — strangely, plaintively, then leaving the lawn, it was heard 
further and further off, till the last faint “whip-poor-will,” in the 
far distance, ended its pretty interlude. It was almost too dark to 
read faces, but the eyes of the brother and sister had sought each 
other and remained fixed till the bird was out of hearing ; then 
Alice’s hand was removed to his, and her head found its old place 
on her brother’s shoulder. 

“ Sometimes, John,” said Alice, “ I am afraid I have one tie too 
strong to this world. I cannot bear — as I ought — to have you 
away from me.” 

Her brother’s lips were instantly pressed to her forehead. 

“ I may say to you, Alice, as Colonel Gardiner said to his wife, 
‘ we have an eternity to spend together !’ ” 

“ I wonder,” said Alice, after a pause, — “ how those can bear to 
love or be loved, whose affection can see nothing but a blank be- 
yond the grave.” 

“ Few people, I believe,” said her brother, “ would come exactly 
under that description ; most flatter themselves with a vague hope 
of reunion after death.” 

“ But that is a miserable hope — very different from ours.” 

“ Y ery different indeed ! — and miserable ; for it can only deceive ; 
but ours is sure. 1 Them that sleep in Jesus will God bring with 
him.’ ” 

“Precious!” said Alice. “ How exactly fitted to every want 
and mood of the mind are the sweet Bible words.” 

“Well! said Mr. Humphreys, rousing himself, — “ I am going 
in ! These mosquitoes have half eaten me up. Are you going to 
sit there all night?” 

“We are thinking of it, papa,” said Alice cheerfully. 

He went in, and was heard calling Margery for a light. 

They had better lights on the lawn. The stars began to peep 
out through the soft blue, and as the blue grew deeper they came 
out more and brighter, till all heaven was hung with lamps. But 


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407 


that was not all. In the eastern horizon, just above the low hills 
that bordered the far side of the plain, a white light, spreading and 
growing and brightening, promised the moon, and promised that 
she would rise very splendid ; and even before she came began to 
throw a faint lustre over the landscape. All eyes were fastened, 
and exclamations burst, as the first silver edge showed itself, and 
the moon rapidly rising looked on them with her whole broad 
bright face ; lighting up not only their faces and figures but the 
wide country view that was spread out below, and touching most 
beautifully the trees in the edge of the gap, and faintly the lawn ; 
while the wall of wood stood in deeper and blacker shadow than 
ever. 

“ Isn’t that beautiful !” said Ellen. 

“ Come round here, Ellie,” said John ; — “ Alice may have you 
all the rest of the year, but when I am at home you belong to me. 
What was your little head busied upon a while ago ?” 

“When?” said Ellen. 

“ When I asked you ” 

“ Oh, I know, — I remember. I was thinking ” 

“ Well?”— 

“ I was thinking — do you want me to tell you ?” 

“ Unless you would rather not.” 

“ I was thinking about Jesus Christ,” said Ellen in a low tone. 

“What about him, dear Ellie?” said her brother, drawing her 
closer to his side. 

“ Different things, — I was thinking of what he said about little 
children — and about what he said, you know, — ‘ In my Father’s 
house are many mansions — and I was thinking that mamma was 
there ; and I thought — that we all ” 

Ellen could get no further. 

“ ‘ He that believeth in him shall not be ashamed,’ ” said John 
softly. “ ‘ This is the promise that he hath promised us, even eternal 
life ; and who shall separate us from the love of Christ ? Not 
death, nor things present, nor things to come. But he that hath 
this hope in him purifieth himself even as he is pure ;’ — let us re- 
member that too.” 

“ Mr. John,” said Ellen presently, — “ don’t you like some of the 
chapters in the Revelation very much?” 

“ Yes — very much. Why? — do you?” 

“ Yes. I remember reading parts of them to mamma, and that 
is one reason, I suppose ; but I like them very much. There is a 
great deal I can’t understand, though.” 

“ There is nothing finer in the Bible than parts of that book,” 
said Alice. 

“Mr. John,” said Ellen, — “what is meant by the ‘white 
stone ?’ ” 


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“ ( And in the stone a new name written ?’ ” — 

“ Yes — that I mean.” 

“ Mr. Baxter says it is the sense of God’s love in the heart ; and 
indeed that is it ■ which no man knoweth saving him that receiveth 
it.’ This, I take it, Ellen, was Christian’s certificate, which he 
used to comfort himself with reading in, you remember ?” 

“ Can a child have it?” said Ellen thoughtfully. 

“Certainly — many children have had it — you may have it. 
Only seek it faithfully. ‘ Thou meetest him that rejoiceth and 
worketh righteousness, those that remember thee in thy ways.’ — And 
Christ said, ‘ he that loveth me shall be loved of my Father, and 
I will love him, and I will manifest myself to him !’ There is no 
failure in these promises, Ellie ; he that made them is the same 
yesterday, to-day, and for ever.” 

For a little while each was busy with his own meditations. The 
moon meanwhile, rising higher and higher, poured a flood of light 
through the gap in the woods before them, and stealing among the 
trees here and there lit up a spot of ground under their deep 
shadow. The distant picture lay in mazy brightness. All was 
still, but the ceaseless chirrup of insects and gentle flapping of 
leaves; the summer air just touched their cheeks with the lightest 
breath of a kiss, sweet from distant hay-fields, and nearer pines 
and hemlocks, and other of nature’s numberless perfume-boxes. 
The hay-harvest had been remarkably late this year. 

“ This is higher enjoyment,” said John, — “ than half those who 
make their homes in rich houses and mighty palaces have any 
notion of.” 

“ But cannot rich people look at the moon?” said Ellen. 

“ Yes, but the taste for pure pleasures is commonly gone when 
people make a trade of pleasure.” 

“Mr. John,” r — Ellen began. 

“I will forewarn you,” said he, — “that Mr. John has made up 
his mind he will do nothing more for you. So if you have any 
thing to ask, it must lie still, — unless you will begin again.” 

Ellen drew back. He looked grave, but she saw Alice smiling. 

“ But what shall I do ?” said she, a little perplexed and half 
laughing. “ What do you mean, Mr. John? What does he mean, 
Alice?” 

“ You could speak without a 1 Mr.’ to me this morning when you 
were in trouble.” 

“ Oh !” said Ellen laughing, — “ I forgot myself then.” 

“ Have the goodness to forget yourself permanently for the 
future.” 

“Was that man hurt this morning, John ?” said his sister. 

“ What man ?” 

“ That man you delivered Ellen from.” 


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409 


“Hurt? no — nothing material; I did not wish to hurt him. 
He richly deserved punishment, hut it was not for me to give it.” 

“ He was in no hurry to get up,” said Ellen. 

“ I do not think he ventured upon that till we were well out of 
the way. He lifted his head and looked after us as we rode off.” 

“But I wanted to ask something,” said Ellen, — “ Oh ! what is 
the reason the moon looks so much larger when she first gets up 
than she does afterwards?” 

“Whom are you asking?” 

“You.” 

“ And who is you ? Here are two people in the moonlight.” 

“Mr. John Humphreys, — Alice’s brother, and that Thomas calls 
‘ the young master,’ ” said Ellen laughing. 

“ You are more shy of taking a leap than your little horse is,” said 
John smiling,— “ but I shall bring you up to it yet. What is the 
cause of the sudden enlargement of my thumb?” 

He had drawn a small magnifying glass from his pocket and 
held it between his hand and Ellen. 

“ Why it is not enlarged,” said Ellen, “it is only magnified.” 

“ What do you mean by that?” 

“ Why, the glass makes it look larger.” 

“ Do you know how, or why ?” 

“ No.” 

He put up the glass again. 

“But what do you mean by that?” said Ellen, — “there is no 
magnifying glass between us and the moon to make her look 
larger.” 

“ You are sure of that?” 

“Why yes!” said Ellen; — “I am perfectly sure; there is 
nothing in the world. There she is, right up there, looking straight 
down upon us, and there is nothing between.” 

“ What is it that keeps up that pleasant fluttering of leaves in 
the wood?” 

“ Why, the wind.” 

“ And what is the wind?” 

“It is air — air moving, I suppose.” 

“ Exactly. Then there is something between us and the moon.” 

“ The air ! But, Mr. John, one can see quite clearly through 
the air; it doesn’t make things look larger or smaller.” 

“ How far do you suppose the air reaches from us toward the 
moon ?” 

“Why all the way, don’t it? 

“ No — only about forty miles. If it reached all the way there 
would indeed be no magnifying glass in the case.” 

“ But how is it?” said Ellen. “ I don’t understand.” 

“ I cannot tell you to-night, Elbe. There is a long ladder of 
s 35 


410 


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knowledge to go up before we can get to the moon, but we will 
begin to mount to-morrow, if nothing happens. Alice, you have 
that little book of Conversations on Natural Philosophy, which you 
and I used to delight ourselves with in old time ?” 

“ Safe and sound in the bookcase,” said Alice. “ I have thought 
of giving it to Ellen before, but she has been busy enough with 
what she had already.” 

“ I have done Rollin now, though,” said Ellen ; — “ that is lucky. 
I am ready for the moon.” 

This new study was begun the next day, and Ellen took great 
delight in it. She would have run on too fast in her eagerness but 
for the steady hand of her teacher ; he obliged her to be very 
thorough. This was only one of her items of business. The 
weeks of John’s stay were as usual not merely weeks of constant 
and varied delight, but of constant and swift improvement too. 

A good deal of time was given to the riding-lessons. John 
busied himself one morning in preparing a bar for her on the lawn ; 
so placed that it might fall if the horse’s heels touched it. Here 
Ellen learned to take first standing, and then running, leaps. She 
was afraid at first, but habit wore that off; and the bar was raised 
higher and higher, till Margery declared she “ couldn’t stand and 
look at her going over it.” Then John made her ride without the 
stirrup, and with her hands behind her, while he, holding the horse 
by a long halter, made him go round in a circle, slowly at first, and 
afterwards trotting and cantering, till Ellen felt almost as secure on 
his back as in a chair. It took a good many lessons however to 
bring her to this, and she trembled very much at the beginning. 
Her teacher was careful and gentle, but determined ; and whatever 
he said she did, tremble or no tremble ; and in general loved her 
riding lessons dearly. 

Drawing too went on finely. He began to let her draw things 
from nature ; and many a pleasant morning the three went out 
together with pencils and books and work, and spent hours in the 
open air. They would find a pretty point of view, or a nice shady 
place where the breeze came, and where there was some good old 
rock with a tree beside it, or a piece of fence, or the house or barn 
in the distance, for Ellen to sketch ; and while she drew and Alice 
worked, John read aloud to them. Sometimes he took a pencil 
too, and Alice read ; and often, often, pencils, books, and work 
were all laid down ; and talk, — lively, serious, earnest, always de- 
lightful, — took the place of them. When Ellen could not under- 
stand the words, at least she could read the faces ; and that was a 
study she was never weary of. At home there were other studies 
and much reading ; many tea drinkings on the lawn, and even 
breakfastings, which she thought pleasanter still. 

As soon as it was decided that Mr. Van Brunt’s leg was doing 


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411 


well, and in a fair way to be sound again, Ellen went to see him ; 
and after that rarely let two days pass without going again. John 
and Alice used to ride with her so far, and taking a turn beyond 
while she made her visit, call for her on their way back. She had 
a strong motive for going in the pleasure her presence always gave, 
both to Mr. Van Brunt and his mother. Sam Larkens had been 
to Thirlwall and seen Mrs. Forbes, and from him they had heard 
the story of her riding up and down the town in search of the 
doctor ; neither of them could forget it. Mrs. Van Brunt poured 
out her affection in all sorts of expressions whenever she had 
Ellen’s ear ; her son was not a man of many words ; but Ellen 
knew his face and manner well enough without them, and read 
there whenever she went into his room what gave her great 
pleasure. 

“ How do you do, Mr. Van Brunt?” she said on one of these 
occasions. 

“ Oh, I’m getting along, I s’pose,” said he ; — “getting along as 
well as a man can that’s lying on his back from morning to night; 
— prostrated, as ’Squire Dennison said his corn was t’other day.” 

“It is very tiresome, isn’t it ?” said Ellen. 

“It’s the tiresomest work that ever was, for a man that has two 
arms to be a doing nothing, day after day. And what bothers me 
is the wheat in the ten-acre lot, that ought to be prostrated too, 
and ain’t, nor ain’t like to be, as I know, unless the rain comes 
and does it. Sam and Johnny ’ll make no head- way at all with it 
— I can tell as well as if I see ’em.” 

“ But Sam is good, isn’t he ?” said Ellen. 

“ Sam’s as good a boy as ever was ; but then Johnny Low is 
mischievous, you see, and he gets Sam out of his tracks once in a 
while. I never see a finer growth of wheat. I had a sight rather 
cut and harvest the hull of it than to lie here and think of it get- 
ting spoiled. I’m a’most out o’ conceit o’ trap doors, Ellen.” 

Ellen could not help smiling. 

“ What can I do for you, Mr. Van Brunt ?” 

u There ain’t nothing,” said he; — “ I wish there was. How are 
you coming along at home?” 

“ I don’t know,” said Ellen ; — “ I am not there just now, you 
know ; I am staying up with Miss Alice again.” 

“ Oh, ay! while her brother’s at home. He’s a splendid man, 
that young Mr. Humphreys, ain’t he?” 

“Oh, I knew that a great while ago,” said Ellen, the bright 
colour of pleasure overspreading her face. 

“ Well, I didn’t, you see, till the other day, when he came here, 
very kindly, to see how I was getting on. I wish something would 
bring him again. I never heerd a man talk I liked to hear so 
much.” 


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Ellen secretly resolved something should bring him ; and went 
on with a purpose she had had for some time in her mind. 

“ Wouldn’t it be pleasant, while you are lying there and can do 
nothing, — wouldn’t you like to have me read something to you, 
Mr. Van Brunt ? I should like to, very much.” 

“ It’s just like you,” said he gratefully, — “ to think of that ; but 
I wouldn’t have you be bothered with it.” 

“ It wouldn’t indeed. I should like it very much.” 

“ Well, if you’ve a mind,” said he ; — “ I can’t say but it would 
be a kind o’ comfort to keep that grain out o’ my head a while. 
Seems to me I have cut and housed it all three times over already. 
Bead just whatever you have a mind to. If you was to go over a 
last year’s almanac, it would be as good as a fiddle to me.” 

u I’ll do better for you than that, Mr. Van Brunt,” said Ellen, 
laughing in high glee at having gained her point. — She had 
secretly brought her Pilgrim’s Progress with her, and now with 
marvellous satisfaction drew it forth. 

“ I ha’n’t been as much of a reader as I had ought to,” said 
Mr. Van Brunt, as she opened the book and turned to the first 
page ; — •“ but, however, I understand my business pretty well ; and 
a man can’t be every thing to once. Now let’s hear what you’ve 
got there.” 

With a throbbing heart, Ellen began ; and read, notes and all, 
till the sound of tramping hoofs and Alice’s voice made her break 
off. It encouraged and delighted her to see that Mr. Van Brunt’s 
attention was perfectly fixed. He lay still, without moving his 
eyes from her face, till she stopped ; then thanking her he declared 
that was a “first-rate book,” and he “should like mainly to hear 
the hull on it.” 

From that time Ellen was diligent in her attendance on him. 
That she might have more time for reading than the old plan gave 
her, she set off by herself alone some time before the others, of 
course riding home with them. It cost her a little sometimes, to 
forego so much of their company ; but she never saw the look of 
grateful pleasure with which she was welcomed without ceasing to 
regret her self-denial. How Ellen blessed those notes as she went 
on with her reading ! They said exactly what she wanted Mr. Van 
Brunt to hear, and in the best way, and were too short and simple 
to interrupt the interest of the story. After a while she ventured 
to ask if she might read him a chapter in the Bible. He agreed 
very readily ; owning “ he hadn’t ought to be so long without read- 
ing one as he had been.” Ellen then made it a rule to herself, 
without asking any more questions, to end every reading with a 
chapter in the Bible ; and she carefully sought out those that 
might be most likely to take hold of his judgment or feelings. 
They took hold of her own very deeply, by the means ; what was 


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413 


strong, or tender, before, now seemed to her too mighty to be with- 
i stood ; and Ellen read not only with her lips but with her whole 
heart the precious words, longing that they might come with their 
just effect upon Mr. Van Brunt’s mind. 

Once as she finished reading the tenth chapter of John, a fa- 
vourite chapter, which between her own feeling of it and her strong 
wish for him had moved her even to tears, she cast a glance at his 
face to see how he took it. His head was a little turned to one 
side, and his eyes closed ; she thought he was asleep. Ellen was 
very much disappointed. She sank her head upon her book and 
prayed that a time might come when he would know the worth of 
those words. The touch of his hand startled her. 

“ What is the matter?” said he. “ Are you tired?” 

“ No,” said Ellen looking hastily up ; — “ Oh, no ! I’m not tired.” 
“But what ails you?” said the astonished Mr. Van Brunt; 

! “ what have you been a crying for ? what’s the matter?” 

“ Oh, never mind,” said Ellen, brushing her hand over her eyes, 
— “ it’s no matter.” 

“Yes, but I want to know,” said Mr. Van Brunt; — “you 
shan’t have any thing to vex you that 1 can help ; what is it?” 

“It is nothing, Mr. Van Brunt,” said Ellen, bursting into tears 
again, — “ only I thought you were asleep — I — I thought you didn’t 
care enough about the Bible to keep awake — I want so much that 

I you should be a Christian !” 

He half groaned and turned his head away. 

“ What makes you wish that so much ?” said he after a minute 
or two. 

1 “ Because I want you to be happy,” said Ellen, — “ and I know 
you can’t without.” 

“ Well, I am pretty tolerable happy,” said he ; — “ as happy as 
most folks I guess.” 

“ But I want you to be happy when you die, too,” said Ellen ; — 
“ I want to meet you in heaven ” 

“ I hope I will go there, surely,” said he gravely, — “ when the 

I time comes.” 

Ellen was uneasily silent, not knowing what to say. 

1 “ I ain’t as good as I ought to be,” said he presently, with a half 
sigh ; — “ I ain’t good enough to go to heaven — I wish I was. You 
are, I do believe.” 

“I! oh, no, Mr. Van Brunt, do not say that; — I am not good 
at all — I am full of wrong things.” 

“ Well I wish I was full of wrong things too, in the same way,” 
said he. 

“ But lam,” said Ellen, — “ whether you will believe it or not. 
Nobody is good, Mr. Van Brunt. But Jesus Christ has died for 
us, — and if we ask him he will forgive us, and wash away our sins, 


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and teach us to love him, and make us good, and take us to be with 
him in heaven. Oh, I wish you would ask him !” she repeated 
with an earnestness that went to his heart. “ 1 don’t believe any 
one can be very happy that doesn’t love him.” 

“ Is that what makes you happy ?” said he. 

“ I have a great many things to make me happy,” said Ellen 
soberly, — “ but that is the greatest of all. It always makes me 
happy to think of him, and it makes every thing else a thousand 
times pleasanter. I wish you knew how it is, Mr. Van Brunt.” 

He was silent for a little, and disturbed Ellen thought. 

“Well!” said he at length, — “ ’tain’t the folks that thinks 
themselves the best that is the best always ; — if you ain’t good I 
should like to know what goodness is. There's somebody that 
thinks you be,” said he a minute or two afterwards, as the horses 
were heard coming to the gate. 

“No, she knows me better than that,” said Ellen. 

“ It isn’t any she that I mean,” said Mr. Van Brunt. — “ There’s 
somebody else out there, ain’t there?” 

“Who?” said Ellen, — “Mr. John? — Oh, no indeed he don’t. 
It was only this morning he was telling me of something I did that 
was wrong.” — Her eyes watered as she spoke. 

“ He must have mighty sharp eyes, then,” said Mr. Van Brunt, 
— “ for it beats all my powers of seeing things.” 

“And so he has,” said Ellen, putting on her bonnet, — “he 
always knows what I am thinking of just as well as if I told him. 
Good-by !” 

“Good-by,” said he; — “I ha’n’t forgotten what you’ve been 
saying, and I don’t mean to.” 

How full of sweet pleasure was the ride home ! 

The “something wrong,” of which Ellen had spoken, was this. 
The day before, it happened that Mr. John had broken her off 
from a very engaging book to take her drawing-lesson ; and as he 
stooped down to give a touch or two to the piece she was to copy, 
he said, “ I don’t want you to read any more of that, Ellie ; it is 
not a good book for you.” Ellen did not for a moment question 
that he was right, nor wish to disobey ; but she had become very 
much interested, and was a good deal annoyed at having such a 
sudden stop put to her pleasure. She said nothing, and went on 
with her work. In a little while Alice asked her to hold a skein 
of cotton for her while she wound it. Ellen was annoyed again at 
the interruption ; the harp-strings were jarring yet, and gave fresh 
discord to every touch. She had, however, no mind to let her 
vexation be seen; she went immediately and held the cotton, and 
as soon as it was done sat down again to her drawing. Before ten 
minutes had passed Margery came to set the table for dinner ; 
Ellen’s papers and desk must move. 


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415 


“Why, it is not dinner-time yet this great while, Margery,” said 
she ; — “ it isn’t much after twelve.” 

“ No, Miss Ellen,” said Margery under her breath, for John 
was in one corner of the room reading, — “ but by and by I’ll be 
busy with the chops and frying the salsify, and I couldn’t leave the 
kitchen ; — if you’ll let me have the table now.” 

Ellen said no more, and moved her things to a stand before the 
window ; where she went on with her copying till dinner was 
ready. Whatever the reason was, however, her pencil did not 
work smoothly ; her eye did not see true ; and she lacked her 
usual steady patience. The next morning, after an hour and 
more’s work and much painstaking, the drawing was finished. 
Ellen had quite forgotten her yesterday’s trouble. But when 
John came to review her drawing, he found several faults with it ; 
pointed out two or three places in which it had suffered from haste 
and want of care ; and asked her how it had happened. Ellen 
knew it happened yesterday. She was vexed again, though she 
did her best not to show it; she stood quietly and heard what 
he had to say. He then told her to get ready for her riding 
lesson. 

“ Mayn’t I just make this right first?” said Ellen ; — “ it won’t 
take me long.” 

u No,” said he, — “ you have been sitting long enough ; I must 
break you off. The Brownie will be here in ten minutes.” 

Ellen was impatiently eager to mend the bad places in her 
drawing, and impatiently displeased at being obliged to ride first. 
Slowly and reluctantly she went to get ready ; John was already 
gone ; she would not have moved so leisurely if he had been any 
where within seeing distance. As it was, she found it convenient 
to quicken her movements ; and was at the door ready as soon as 
he and the Brownie. She was soon thoroughly engaged in the 
management of herself and her horse ; a little smart riding shook 
all the ill-humour out of her, and she was entirely herself again. 
At the end of fifteen or twenty minutes they drew up under the 
shade of a tree to let the Brownie rest a little. It was a warm day 
and John had taken off his hat and stood resting too, with his arm 
leaning on the neck of the horse. Presently he looked round to 
Ellen, and asked her with a smile, if she felt right again ? 

“Why?” said Ellen, the crimson of her cheeks mounting to her 
forehead. But her eye sunk immediately at the answering glance 
of his. He then in a very few words set the matter before her, 
with such a happy mixture of pointedness and kindness, that while 
the reproof, coming from him, went to the quick, Ellen yet joined 
with it no thought of harshness or severity. She was completely 
subdued however ; the rest of the riding-lesson had to be given up ; 


416 


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and for an hour Ellen’s tears could not be stayed. But it was, and 
John had meant it should be, a strong check given to her besetting 
sin. It had a long and lasting effect. 


CHAPTER XL. 

Speed. But tell me true, will ’t be a match ? 

Laun. Ask my dog; if he say, ay, it will; if he say, no, it will ; if he shake 
his tail and say nothing, it will.— Two Gentlemen of Verona. 

In due time Mr. Van Brunt was on his legs again, much to 
every body’s joy, and much to the advantage of fields, fences, and 
grain. Sam and Jobnny found they must “spring to,” as their 
leader said ; and Miss Fortune declared she was thankful she could 
draw a long breath again, for do what she would she couldn’t be 
everywhere. Before this John and the Black Prince had departed, 
and Alice and Ellen were left alone again. 

“How long will it be, dear Alice,” said Ellen, as they stood 
sorrowfully looking down the road by which he had gone, — “be- 
fore he will be through that — before he will be able to leave Don- 
caster ?’ ’ 

“ Next summer.” 

“ And what will he do then ?’ 

“ Then he will be ordained.” 

“ Ordained ? — what is that ?” 

“ He will be solemnly set apart for the work of the ministry, 
and appointed to it by a number of clergymen.” 

“And then will he come and stay at home, Alice?” 

“I don’t know what then, dear Ellen,” said Alice, sighing; — 
“ he may for a little ; but papa wishes very much that before he is 
settled anywhere he should visit England and Scotland and see 
our friends there. Though I hardly think John will do it unless 
he sees some further reason for going. If he do not, he will 
probably soon he called somewhere — Mr. Marshman wants him to 
come to Randolph. I don’t know how it will be.” 

“ Well !” said Ellen, with a kind of acquiescing sigh — “ at any 
rate now we must wait until next Christmas.” 

The winter passed with little to mark it except the usual visits 
to Yentnor ; which, however, by common consent, Alice and Ellen 
had agreed should not be when John was at home. At all other 
times they were much prized and enjoyed. Every two or three 
months Mr. Marshman was sure to come for them, or Mr. Howard, 
or perhaps the carriage only with a letter ; and it was bargained 
that Mr. Humphreys should follow to see them home. It was not 


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417 


always that Ellen could go, but the disappointments were seldom ; 
she too had become quite domesticated at Ventnor, and was sin- 
cerely loved by the whole family. Many as were the times she 
had been there, it had oddly happened that she had never met her 
old friend of the boat again ; but she was very much attached to 
old Mr. and Mrs. Marshman, and Mrs. Chauncey and her daughter ; 
the latter of whom reckoned all the rest of her young friends as 
nothing compared with Ellen Montgomery. Ellen, in her opin : 
did every thing better than any one else of her age. 

“ She has good teachers,” said Mrs. Chauncey. 

“ Yes, indeed ! I should think she had. Alice, — I should think 
any body would learn well with her ; — and Mr. John — I suppose 
he’s as good, though I don’t know so much about him ; but he 
must be a great deal better teacher than Mr. Sandford, mamma, 
for Ellen draws ten times as well as I do !” 

“Perhaps that is your fault and not Mr. Sandford’ s,” said her 
mother, — “ though I rather think you overrate the difference.” 

“ I am sure I take pains enough, if that’s all,” said the little 
girl ; — “ what more can I do, mamma? But Ellen is so pleasant 
about it always ; she never seems to think she does better than I ; 
and she is always ready to help me and take ever so much time to 
show me how to do things ; — she is so pleasant ; isn’t she, mamma? 
I know I have heard you say she is very polite.” 

“ She is certainly that,” said Mrs. Gillespie, — “and there is a 
grace in her politeness that can only proceed from great natural 
delicacy and refinement of character ; — how she can have such 
manners, living and working in the way you say she does, I con- 
fess is beyond my comprehension.” 

“ One would not readily forget the notion of good-breeding in 
the society of Alice and John Humphreys,” said Miss Sophia. 

“ And Mr. Humphreys,” said Mrs. Chauncey. 

“ There is no society about him,” said Miss Sophia; — “ he don’t 
say two dozen words a day.” 

“ But she is not with them,” said Mrs. Gillespie. 

“She is with them a great deal, aunt Matilda,” said Ellen 
Chauncey, — “ and they teach her every thing, and she does learn ! 
She must be very clever ; don’t you think she is, mamma ? Mamma, 
she beats me entirely in speaking French, and she knows all about 
English history ; and arithmetic ! — and did you ever hear her sing, 
mamma ?” 

“ I do not believe she beats you, as you call it, in generous 
estimation of others,” said Mrs. Chauncey, smiling, and bending 
forward to kiss her daughter ; — “ but what is the reason Ellen is 
so much better read in history than you ?’ ’ 

“ I don’t know, mamma, unless— I wish I wasn’t so fond of 
reading stories.” 
bb 


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“Ellen Montgomery is just as fond of them, I’ll warrant,” said 
Miss Sophia. 

“ Yes, — oh, I know she is fond of them ; but then Alice and 
Mr. John don’t let her read them, except now and then one.” 

“ I fancy she does it though when their backs are turned,” said 
Mrs. Gillespie. 

“ She ! oh, aunt Matilda ! she wouldn’t do the least thing they 
don’t like for the whole world. I know she never reads a story 
when she is here, unless it is my Sunday books, without asking 
Alice first.” 

“ She is a most extraordinary child !” said Mrs. Gillespie. 

“ She is a good child !” said Mrs. Chauncey. 

“Yes, mamma, and that is what I wanted to say; — I do not 
think Ellen is so polite because she is so much with Alice and 
John, but because she is so sweet and good. I don’t think she 
could help being polite.” 

“ It is not that,” said Mrs. Gillespie ; — “ mere sweetness and 
goodness would never give so much elegance of manner. As far 
as I have seen, Ellen Montgomery is a perfectly well-behaved 
child.” 

“That she is,” said Mrs. Chauncey; — “but neither would any 
cultivation or example be sufficient for it without Ellen’s thorough 
good principle and great sweetness of temper.” 

“ That’s exactly what I think, mamma,” said Ellen Chauncey. 

Ellen’s sweetness of temper was not entirely born with her; it 
was one of the blessed fruits of religion and discipline. Discipline 
had not done with it yet. When the winter came on, and the 
house- work grew less, and with renewed vigour she was bending 
herself to improvement in all sorts of ways, it unluckily came into 
Miss Fortune’s head that some of Ellen’s spare time might be 
turned to account in a new line. With this lady, to propose and 
to do were two things always very near together. The very next 
day Ellen was summoned to help her down stairs with the big 
spinning-wheel. Most unsuspiciously, and with her accustomed 
pleasantness, Ellen did it. But when she was sent up again for 
the rolls of wool ; and Miss Fortune after setting up the wheel, put 
one of them into her hand and instructed her how to draw out and 
twist the thread of yarn, she saw all that was coming. She saw it 
with dismay. So much yarn as Miss Fortune might think it well 
she should spin, so much time must be taken daily from her be- 
loved reading and writing, drawing and studying ; her very heart 
sunk with her. She made no remonstrance, unless her disconsolate 
face might be thought one ; she stood half a day at the big spin- 
ning-wheel, fretting secretly, while Miss Fortune went round with 
an inward chuckle visible in her countenance, that in spite of her- 
self increased Ellen’s vexation. And this was not the annoyance 


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419 


of a day ; she must expect it day after day through the whole win- 
ter. It was a grievous trial. Ellen cried for a great while when 
she got to her own room, and a long hard struggle was necessary 
before she could resolve to do her duty. “ To be patient and quiet ! 
— and spin nobody knows how much yarn — and my poor history 
and philosophy and drawing and French and reading” — Ellen cried 
very heartily. But she knew what she ought to do ; she prayed 
long, humbly, earnestly, that “ her little rushlight might shine 
bright;” — and her aunt had no cause to complain of her. Some- 
times, if overpressed, Ellen would ask Miss Fortune to let her 
stop ; saying, as Alice had advised her, that she wished to have her 
do such and such things. Miss Fortune never made any objection ; 
and the hours of spinning that wrought so many knots of yarn for 
her aunt, wrought better things yet for the little spinner : patience 
and gentleness grew with the practice of them ; this wearisome 
work was one of the many seemingly untoward things which in 
reality bring out good. The time Ellen did secure to herself was 
held the more precious and used the more carefully. After all it 
was a very profitable and pleasant winter to her. 

John’s visit came as usual at the holidays, and was enjoyed as 
usual ; only that every one seemed to Ellen more pleasant than the 
last. The sole other event that broke the quiet course of things, 
(beside the journeys to Ventnor) was the death of Mrs. Yan 
Brunt. This happened very unexpectedly and after a short illness, 
not far from the end of January. Ellen was very sorry ; both for 
her own sake and Mr. Van Brunt’s, who she was sure felt much, 
though according to his general custom he said nothing. Ellen 
felt for him none the less. She little thought what an important 
bearing this event would have upon her own future well-being. 

The winter passed and the spring came. One fine mild pleasant 
afternoon early in May, Mr. Yan Brunt came into the kitchen and 
asked Ellen if she wanted to go with him and see the sheep salted. 
Ellen was seated at the table with a large tin pan in her lap, and 
before her a huge heap of white beans which she was picking over 
for the Saturday’s favourite dish of pork and beans. She looked 
up at him with a hopeless face. 

“ I should like to go very much indeed, Mr. Yan Brunt, but you 
see I can’t. All these to do !” 

“Beans, eh?” said he, putting one or two in his mouth. 
“Where’s your aunt?” 

Ellen pointed to the buttery. He immediately went to the door 
and rapped on it with his knuckles. 

“ Here, ma’am !” said he, — “ can’t you let this child go with me ? 
I want her along to help feed the sheep.” 

To Ellen’s astonishment her aunt called to her through the closed 
door to “go along and leave the beans till she came back.” Joy- 


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fully Ellen obeyed. She turned her back upon the beans, careless 
of the big heap which would still be there to pick over when she 
returned ; and ran to get her bonnet. In all the time she had been 
at Thirlwall something had always prevented her seeing the sheep 
fed with salt, and she went eagerly out of the door with Mr. Van 
Brunt to a new pleasure. 

They crossed two or three meadows back of the barn to a low 
rocky hill covered with trees. On the other side of this they came 
to a fine field of spring wheat. Footsteps must not go over the 
young grain ; Ellen and Mr. Van Brunt coasted carefully round by 
the fence to another piece of rocky woodland that lay on the far 
side of the wheat-field. It was a very fine afternoon. The grass 
was green in the meadow ; the trees were beginning to show their 
leaves ; the air was soft and spring-like. In great glee Ellen 
danced along, luckily needing no entertainment from Mr. Van 
Brunt, who was devoted to his salt-pan. His natural taciturnity 
seemed greater than ever ; he amused himself all the way over the 
meadow with turning over his salt and tasting it, till Ellen laugh- 
ingly told him' she believed he was as fond of it as the sheep were ; 
and then he took to chucking little bits of it right and left, at any 
thing he saw that was big enough to serve for a mark. Ellen 
stopped him again by laughing at his wastefulness ; and so they 
came to the wood. She left him then to do as he liked, while she 
ran hither and thither to search for flowers. It was slow getting 
through the w T ood. He was fain to stop and wait for her. 

“Aren’t these lovely?” said Ellen as she came up with her 
hands full of anemones, — “ and look — there’s the liverwort. I 
thought it must be out before now — the dear little thing ! — but I 
can’t find any blood-root, Mr. Van Brunt.” 

“ I guess they’re gone,” said Mr. Van Brunt. 

“ I suppose they must,” said Ellen. “ I am sorry ; I like them 
so much. Oh, I believe I did get them earlier than this two years 
ago when I used to take so many walks with you. Only think of 
my not having been to look for flowers before this spring.” 

“ It hadn’t ought to ha’ happened so, that’s a fact,” said Mr. 
Van Brunt. “ I don’t know how it has.” 

“ Oh, there are my yellow bells !” exclaimed Ellen ; — “ oh, you 
beauties ! Aren’t they, Mr. Van Brunt?” 

“ I won’t say but what I think an ear of wheat’s handsomer,” 
said he with his half smile. 

“ Why Mr. Van Brunt ! how can you? — but an ear of wheat’s 
pretty too. Oh, Mr. Van Brunt, what is that? Do you get me 
some of it, will you, please ? Oh, how beautiful ! — what is it?” 

“ That’s black birch,” said he ; — “ 'tis kind o’ handsome ; — stop, 
I’ll find you some oak blossoms directly. — There’s some Solomon’s 
seal — do you want some of that?” 


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421 


Ellen sprang to it with exclamations of joy, and before she 
could rise from her stooping posture discovered some cowslips to 
be scrambled for. Wild columbine, the delicate corydalis, and 
more uvularias, which she called yellow bells, were added to her 
handful, till it grew a very elegant bunch indeed. Mr. Van Brunt 
looked complacently on, much as Ellen would at a kitten running 
round after its tail. 

“ Now I won’t keep you any longer, Mr. Van Brunt,” said she, 
when her hands were as full as they could hold ; — “ I have kept 
you a great while ; you are very good to wait for me.” 

They took up their line of march again, and after crossing the 
last piece of rocky woodland came to an open hill-side, sloping 
gently up, at the foot of which were several large flat stones. 

“ But where are the sheep, Mr. Van Brunt,” said Ellen. 

“ I guess they ain’t fur,” said he. “You keep quiet, ’cause 
they don’t know you ; and they are mighty scary. Just stand 
still there by the fence. — Ca-nan ! ca-nan ! Ca-nan, nan, nan, nan 
nan, nan, nan l” 

This was the sheep call, and raising his voice Mr. Yan Brunt 
made it sound abroad far over the hills. Again and again it 
sounded ; and then Ellen saw the white nose of a sheep at the 
edge of the woods on the top of the hill. On the call’s sounding 
again the sheep set forward, and in a long train they came running 
along a narrow footpath down toward where Mr. Yan Brunt was 
standing with his pan. The soft tramp of a multitude of light 
hoofs in another direction turned Ellen’s eyes that way, and there 
were two more single files of sheep running down the hill from 
different points in the woodland. The pretty things came scamper- 
ing along, seeming in a great hurry, till they got very near ; then 
the whole multitude came to a sudden halt, and looked very wist- 
fully and doubtfully indeed at Mr. Yan Brunt and the strange 
little figure standing so still by the fence. They seemed in great 
doubt, every sheep of them, whether Mr. Yan Brunt were not a 
traitor, who had put on a friend’s voice and lured them down there 
with some dark evil intent, which he was going to carry out by 
means of that same dangerous-looking stranger by the fence. 
Ellen almost expected to see them turn about and go as fast as 
they had come. But Mr. Yan Brunt gently repeating his call, 
went quietly up to the nearest stone and began to scatter the salt 
upon it, full in their view. Doubt was at an end ; he had hung 
out the white flag ; they flocked down to the stones, no longer at 
all in fear of double-dealing, and crowded to get at the salt ; the 
rocks where it was strewn were covered with more sheep than 
Ellen would have thought it possible could stand upon them. 
They were like pieces of floating ice heaped up with snow, or 
queen-cakes with an immoderately thick frosting. It was one 

36 


422 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 


scene of pushing and crowding ; those which had not had their 
share of the feast forcing themselves up to get at it, and shoving 
others off in consequence. Ellen was wonderfully pleased. It was 
a new and pretty sight, the busy hustling crowd of gentle creat- 



ures ; with the soft noise of their tread upon grass and stones, 
and the eager devouring of the salt. She was fixed with pleasure, 
looking and listening ; and did not move till the entertainment was 
over, and the body of the flock were carelessly scattering here and 
there, while a few that had perhaps been disappointed of their part 


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423 


still lingered upon the stones in the vain hope of yet licking a little 
saltness from them. 

“ Well,” said Ellen, “ I never knew what salt was worth before. 
How they do love it ! Is it good for them, Mr. Van Brunt ?” 

“ Good for them ?” he said, — “ to be sure it is good for them. 
There ain’t a critter that walks, as I know, that it ain’t good for, 
— ’cept chickens, and it’s very queer it kills them.” 

They turned to go homeward. Ellen had taken the empty pan 
to lay her flowers in, thinking it would be better for them than the 
heat of her hand ; and greatly pleased with what she had come to 
see, and enjoying her walk as much as it was possible, she was 
going home very happy; yet she could not help missing Mr. Van 
Brunt’s old sociableness. He was uncommonly silent, even for 
him, considering that he and Ellen were alone together ; and she 
wondered what had possessed him with a desire to cut down all 
the young saplings he came to that were large enough for walking 
sticks. He did not want to make any use of them, that was cer- 
tain, for as fast as he cut and trimmed out one he threw it away 
and cut another. Ellen was glad when they got out into the open 
fields where there were none to be found. 

“It is just about this time a year ago,” said she, “ that aunt 
Fortune was getting well of her long fit of sickness.” 

“Yes!” said Mr. Van Brunt, with a very profound air; — 
“ something is always happening most years.” 

Ellen did not know what to make of this philosophical remark. 

“ I am very glad nothing is happening this year,” said she; — 
“ I think it is a great deal pleasanter to have things go on quietly.” 

“ Oh, something might happen without hindering things going 
on quietly, I s’pose, — mightn’t it?” 

“I don’t know,” said Ellen, wonderingly ; — “why Mr. Van 
Brunt what is going to happen ?” 

“I declare,” said he, half laughing, — “you’re as cute as a 
razor; I didn’t say there was any thing going to happen, did I?” 

“ But is there?” said Ellen. 

“ Ha’ n’t your aunt said nothing to you about it ?” 

“ Why no,” said Ellen, — “she never tells me anything; what 
is it ?” 

“ Why the story is,” said Mr. Van Brunt, — “ at least I know, 
for I’ve understood as much from herself, that — I believe she’s 
going to be married before long.” 

“ She !” exclaimed Ellen. “ Married ! — aunt Fortune !” 

“I believe so,” said Mr. Van Brunt, making a lunge at a tuft 
of tall grass and pulling off two or three spears of it, which he 
carried to his mouth. 

There was a long silence, during which Ellen saw nothing in 
earth, air, or sky, and knew no longer whether she was passing 


424 


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through woodland or meadow. To frame words into another sen- 
tence was past her power. They came in sight of the barn at 
length. She would not have much more time. 

“ Will it be soon, Mr. Van Brunt?” 

“ Why pretty soon, as soon as next week, I guess ; so I thought 
it was time you ought to be told. Do you know to who ?” 

“I don’t know” said Ellen in a low voice; — “I couldn’t help 
guessing.” 

“ I reckon you’ve guessed about right,” said he, without looking 
at her. 

There was another silence, during which it seemed to Ellen that 
her thoughts were tumbling head over heels, they were in such 
confusion. 

“ The short and the long of it is,” said Mr. Van Brunt, as they 
rounded the corner of the barn, — “ we have made up our minds to 
draw in the same yoke ; and we’re both on us pretty go-ahead folks, 
so I guess we’ll contrive to pull the cart along. I had just as lieve 
tell you, Ellen, that all this was as good as settled a long spell back, 
— ’afore ever you came to Thirlwall ; but I was never agoing to 
leave my old mother without a home ; so I stuck to her, and would, 
to the end of time, if I had never been married. But now she is 
gone, and there is nothing to keep me to the old place any longer. 
So now you know the hull on it, and I wanted you should.” 

With this particularly cool statement of his matrimonial views, 
Mr. Van Brunt turned off into the barnyard, leaving Ellen to go 
home by herself. She felt as if she were walking on air while she 
crossed the chip- yard, and the very house had a seeming of unre- 
ality. Mechanically she put her flowers in water, and sat down to 
finish the beans ; but the beans might have been flowers and the 
flowers beans for all the difference Ellen saw in them. Miss For- 
tune and she shunned each other’s faces most carefully for a long 
time ; Ellen felt it impossible to meet her eyes ; and it is a matter 
of great uncertainty which in fact did first look at the other. 
Other than this there was no manner of difference in any thing 
without or within the house. Mr. Van Brunt’s being absolutely 
speechless was not a very uncommon thing. 


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425 


CHAPTER XLI. 

Poor little, pretty, fluttering thing, 

Must we no longer live together ? 

And dost thou prune thy trembling wing 

To take thy flight thou knowest not whither ? 

Prior. 

As soon as she could Ellen carried this wonderful news to Alice, 
and eagerly poured out the whole story, her walk and all. She 
was somewhat disappointed at the calmness of her hearer. 

“ But you don’t seem half as surprised as I expected, Alice; I 
thought you would be so much surprised.” 

“ I am not surprised at all, Ellie.” 

“ Not U — aren’t you ? — why, did you know any thing of this 
before ?” 

“ I did not know , but I suspected. I thought it was very 
likely. I am very glad it is so.” 

“ Glad ! are you glad ? I am so sorry ; — why are you glad, 
Alice ?” 

‘‘Why are you sorry, Ellie ?” 

“ Oh, because ! — I don’t know — it seems so queer ! — I don’t like 
it at all. I am very sorry indeed.” 

“ For your aunt’s sake, or for Mr. Van Brunt’s sake ?” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ I mean, do you think he or she will be a loser by the bargain ?” 

“ Why he, to be sure ; I think he will ; I don’t think she will. 
I think he is a great deal too good. And besides — I wonder if he 
wants to really ; — it was settled so long ago — majbe he has changed 
his mind since.” 

“ Have you any reason to think so, Ellie?” said Alice smiling. 

“ I don’t know — I don’t think he seemed particularly glad.’* 

“ It will be safest to conclude that Mr. Van Brunt knows his 
own mind, my dear ; and it is certainly pleasanter for us to hope 
so.” 

“ But then, besides,” said Ellen with a face of great perplexity 
and vexation, — “ I don’t know — it don’t seem right ! How can I 
ever — must I, do you think I shall have to call him any thing but 
Mr. Van Brunt ?” 

Alice could not help smiling again. 

“ What is your objection, Ellie?” 

“ Why, because I cant l— l couldn’t do it, somehow. It would 
seem so strange. Must I, Alice ? — Why in the world are you 
glad, dear Alice ?” 


36 * 


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“ It smooths my way for a plan I have had in my head ; you 
will know by and by why I am glad, Ellie.” 

“Well I am glad if you are glad,” said Ellen sighing; — “I 
don’t know why I was so sorry, but I couldn’t help it ; I suppose I 
shan’t mind it after a while.” 

She sat for a few minutes, musing over the possibility or impos- 
sibility of ever forming her lips to the words “ uncle Abraham,” 
“ uncle Van Brunt,” or barely “ uncle her soul rebelled against 
all three. “Yet if he should think me unkind, — then I must, — 
oh, rather fifty times over than that !” Looking up, she saw a 
change in Alice’s countenance, and tenderly asked, 

“ What is the matter, dear Alice ? what are you thinking 
about?” 

“I am thinking, Ellie, how I shall tell you something that will 
give you pain.” 

“ Pain ! you needn’t be afraid of giving me pain,” said Ellen 
fondly, throwing her arms around her, — “ tell me, dear Alice ; is 
it something I have done that is wrong ? what is it ?” 

Alice kissed her, and burst into tears. 

“What is the matter, oh, dear Alice !” said Ellen, encircling 
Alice’s head with both her arms; — “oh, don’t cry! do tell me 
what it is !” 

“ It is only sorrow for you, dear Ellie.” 

“ But why ?” said Ellen in some alarm ; — “ why are you sorry 
forme? I don’t care, if it don’t trouble you, indeed I don’t! 
Never mind me ; is it something that troubles you, dear Alice ?” 

“ No — except for the effect it may have on others.” 

“ Then I can bear it,” said Ellen ; — “ you need not be afraid to 
tell me dear Alice ; — what is it? don’t be sorry for me !” 

But the expression of Alice’s face was such that she could not 
help being afraid to hear ; she anxiously repeated “ what is it ?” 

Alice fondly smoothed back the hair from her brow, looking 
herself somewhat anxiously and somewhat sadly upon the up- 
lifted face. 

“Suppose Ellie,” she said at length, — “that you and I were 
taking a journey together — a troublesome dangerous journey — 
and that I had a way of getting at once safe to the end of it ; — 
would you be willing to let me go, and you do without me for the 
rest of the way ?” 

“ I would rather you should take me with you,” said Ellen, in a 
kind of maze of wonder and fear; — “ why where are you going, 
Alice?” 

“ I think I am going home, Ellie, — before you.” 

“ Home?” said Ellen. 

“ Yes, — home I feel it to be ; it is not a strange land ; I thank 
God it is my home I am going to.” 


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427 


Ellen sat looking at her, stupefied. 

“It is your home too, love, I trust, and believe,” said Alice 
tenderly ; — “ we shall be together at last. I am not sorry for 
myself ; I only grieve to leave you alone, — and others, — but God 
knows best. We must both look to him.” 

“ Why Alice,” said Ellen starting up suddenly, — “ what do you 
mean ? what do you mean ? — I don’t understand you — what do 
you mean ?’ ’ 

“ Do you not understand me, Ellie ?” 

“ But Alice ! — but Alice — dear Alice — what makes you say so? 
is there any thing the matter with you ?” 

“ Do I look well, Ellie ?” 

With an eye sharpened to painful keenness, Ellen sought in 
Alice’s face for the tokens of what she wished and what she 
feared. It had once or twice lately flitted through her mind that 
Alice was very thin, and seemed to want her old strength, whether 
in riding, or walking, or any other exertion ; and it had struck her 
that the bright spots of colour in Alice’s face were just like what 
her mother’s cheeks used to wear in her last illness. These 
thoughts had just come and gone; but now as she recalled them 
and was forced to acknowledge the justness of them, and her re- 
view of Alice’s face pressed them home anew, — hope for a moment 
faded. She grew white, even to her lips. 

“ My poor Ellie ! my poor Ellie !” said Alice, pressing her little 
sister to her bosom, — “ it must be ! We must say ‘ the Lord’s will 
be done ;’ — we must not forget he does all things well.” 

But Ellen rallied ; she raised her head again ; she could not 
believe what Alice had told her. To her mind it seemed an evil 
too great to happen ; it could not be ! Alice saw this in her look, 
and again sadly stroked her hair from her brow. “ It must be, 
Ellie, she repeated.” 

“ But have you seen somebody? — have you asked somebody ?” 
said Ellen ; — “ some doctor?” 

“I have seen, and I have asked,” said Alice; — “it was not 
necessary, but I have done both. They think as I do.” 

“ But these Thirl wall doctors ” 

“Not them; I did not apply to them. I saw an excellent 
physician at Randolph, the last time I went to Ventnor.” 

“ And he said ” 

“ As I have told you.” 

Ellen’s countenance fell — fell. 

“ It is easier for me to leave you than for you to be left, — I know 
that, my dear little Ellie ! You have no reason to be sorry for me 
— I am sorry for you ; but the hand that is taking me away is one 
that will touch neither of us but to do us good ; — I know that too. 
We must both look away to our dear Saviour, and not for a moment 


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doubt his love. I do not — you must not. Is it not said that * he 
loved Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus?’ ” 

“Yes,” said Ellen, who never stirred her eyes from Alice’s. 

“ And might he not — did it not rest with a word of his lips, to 
keep Lazarus from dying, and save his sisters from all the bitter | 
sorrow his death caused them?” 

Again Ellen said, “ yes,” or her lips seemed to say it. 

“ And yet there were reasons, good reasons, why he should not, 
little as poor Martha and Mary could understand it. — But had he 
at all ceased to love them when he bade all that trouble come ? Do 
you remember, Elbe — oh, how beautiful those words are ! — when 
at last he arrived near the place, and first one sister came to him 
with the touching reminder that he might have saved them from j 
this, and then the other, — weeping and falling at his feet, and re- 
peating ‘ Lord, if thou hadst been here !’ — when he saw their tears, j 
and more, saw the torn hearts that tears could not ease, — he even 
wept with them too ! Oh, I thank God for those words ! He saw 
reason to strike, and his hand did not spare ; but his love shed tears 
for them ! and he is just the same now.” 

Some drops fell from Alice’s eyes, not sorrowful ones ; Ellen had 
hid her face. 

“ Let us never doubt his love, dear Ellie, and surely then we can 
bear whatever that love may bring upon us. I do trust it. I do 
believe it shall be well with them that fear God. I believe it will 
be well for me when I die, — well for you my dear, dear Ellie, — 
well even for my father ” 

She did not finish the sentence, afraid to trust herself. — But oh, 
Ellen knew what it would have been ; and it suddenly startled into 
life all the load of grief that had been settling heavily on her heart. 
Her thoughts had not looked that way before ; — now when they 
did, this new vision of misery was too much to bear. Quite unable 
to contain herself, and unwilling to pain Alice more than she could 
help, with a smothered burst of feeling she sprang away, out of 
the door, into the woods, where she would be unseen and un- 
heard. 

And there in the first burst of her agony, Ellen almost thought 
she should die. Her grief had not now indeed the goading sting 
of impatience ; she knew the hand that gave the blow, and did not 
raise her own against it ; she believed too what Alice had been 
saying, and the sense of it was, in a manner, present with her in 
her darkest time. But her spirit died within her ; she bowed her 
head as if she were never to lift it up again ; and she was ready to 
say with Job, “ what good is my life to me?” 

It was long, very long after, when slowly and mournfully she 
came in again to kiss Alice before going back to her aunt’s. She 
would have done it hurriedly and turned away ; but Alice held her 


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429 


and looked sadly for a minute into the woe-begone little face, then 
clasped her close and kissed her again and again. 

“Oh, Alice,” sobbed Ellen on her neck, — “aren’t you mis- 
taken? maybe you are mistaken.” 

“I am not mistaken, my dear Elbe, my own Elbe,” said Alice’s 
clear sweet voice ; — “ nor sorry, except for others. I will talk with 
you more about this. You will be sorry for me at first, and then 
I hope you will be giad. It is only that I am going home a little 
before you. Remember what I was saying to you a while ago. 
Will you tell Mr. Van Brunt I should like to see him for a few 
minutes some time when he has leisure ? — And come to me early 
to-morrow, love.” 

Ellen could hardly get home. Her blinded eyes could not see 
where she was steppin ; and again and again her fulness of heart 
got the better of every thing else, and unmindful of the growing 
twilight she sat down on a stone by the wayside or flung herself on 
the ground to let sorrows have full sway. In one of these fits of 
bitter struggling with pain, there came on her mind, like a sun- 
beam across a cloud, the thought of Jesus weeping at the grave of 
Lazarus. It came with singular power. Did he love them so 
web ? thought Ellen — and is he looking down upon us with the 
same tenderness even now ? — She felt that the sun was shining 
still, though the cloud might be between ; her broken heart crept 
to His feet and laid its burden there, and after a few minutes she 
rose up and went on her way, keeping that thought still close to 
her heart. The unspeakable tears that were shed during those 
few minutes were that softened out-pouring of the heart that 
leaves it eased. Very, very sorrowful as she was, she went on 
calmly now and stopped no more. 

It was getting dark, and a little way from the gate, on the road, 
she met Mr. Van Brunt. 

“ Why I was beginning to get scared about you,” said he. 
“ I was coming to see where you was. How come you so 
late?” 

Ellen made no answer, and as he now came nearer and he could 
see more distinctly, his tone changed. 

“What’s the matter?” said he, — “you ha’n’t been web ! what 
has happened? what ails you, Ellen?” 

In astonishment and then in alarm, he saw that she was unable 
to speak, and anxiously and kindly begged her to let him know 
what was the matter, and if he could do any thing. Ellen shook 
her head. 

“ Ain’t Miss Alice well ?” said he ; — “ you ha’n’t heerd no bad 
news up there on the hill, have you ?” 

Ellen was not willing to answer this question with yea or nay. 
She recovered herself enough to give him Alice’s message. 


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“I’ll be sure and go,” said he, — “ but you ha’ n’t. told me yet j 
what’s the matter ! Has any thing happened ?” 

“ No,” said Ellen ; — “ don’t ask me — she’ll tell you — don’t ask 
me.” 

“ I guess I’ll go up the first thing in the morning then,” said he, 

— “before breakfast.” 

“No,” said Ellen; — “better not — perhaps she wouldn’t be up 
so early.” 

“ After breakfast then, — I’ll go up right after breakfast. I was 
a going^with the boys up into that ’ere wheat lot, but anyhow I’ll 
do that first. They won’t have a chance to do much bad or good 
before I get back to them, I reckon.” 

As soon as possible she made her escape from Miss Fortune’s 
eye and questions of curiosity which she could not bear to answer, 
and got to her own room. There the first thing she did was to find 
the eleventh chapter of John. She read it as she never had read 
it before ; — she found in it what she never had found before ; one 
of those cordials that none but the sorrowing drink. On the love 
of Christ, as there shown, little Ellen’s heart fastened ; and with that 
one sweetening thought amid all its deep sadness, her sleep that night 
might have been envied by many a luxurious roller in pleasure. 

At Alice’s wish she immediately took up her quarters at the 
parsonage, to leave her no more. But she could not see much 
difference in her from what she had been for several weeks past ; 
and with the natural hopefulness of childhood, her mind presently 
almost refused to believe the extremity of the evil which had been 
threatened. Alice herself was constantly cheerful, and sought by 
all means to further Ellen’s cheerfulness ; though careful at the 
same time, to forbid, as far as she could, the rising of the hope she 
saw Ellen was inclined to cherish. 

One evening they were sitting together at the window, looking 
out upon the same old lawn and distant landscape, now in all the 
fresh greenness of the young spring. The woods were not yet in 
full leaf ; and the light of the setting sun upon the trees bordering 
the other side of the lawn showed them in the most exquisite and 
varied shades of colour. Some had the tender green of the new 
leaf, some were in the red or yellow browns of the half-opened bud ; 
others in various stages of forwardness mixing all the tints between, 
and the evergreens standing dark as ever, setting off the delicate 
hues of the surrounding foliage. This was all softened off in the 
distance ; the very light of the spring was mild and tender com- 
pared with that of other seasons ; and the air that stole round the 
corner of the house and came in at the open window was laden 
with aromatic fragrance. Alice and Ellen had been for some time 
silently breathing it and gazing thoughtfully on the loveliness that 
was abroad. 


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431 


“I used to think,” said Alice, “that it must be a very hard 
thing to leave such a beautiful world. Did you ever think so, 
Ellie ?” 

“ I don’t know,” said Ellen faintly, — “ I don’t remember.” 

“ I used to think so,” said Alice. “ But I do not now, Ellie ; 
my feeling has changed. — Do you feel so now, Ellie ?” 

“ Oh, why do you talk about it, dear Alice?” 

“ For many reasons, dear Ellie. Come here and sit in my lap 
again.” 

“ I am afraid you cannot bear it.” 

“Yes I can. Sit here, and let your head rest where it used to ;” 
— and Alice laid her cheek upon Ellen’s forehead; — “ you are a 
great comfort to me, dear Ellie.” 

“ Oh, Alice, don’t say so — you’ll kill me !” exclaimed Ellen in 
great distress. 

“Why should I not say so, love?” said Alice soothingly. “I 
like to say it, and you will be glad to know it by and by. You are 
a great comfort to me.” 

“ And what have you been to me !” said Ellen weeping bitterly. 

“ What I cannot be much longer ; and I want to accustom you 
to think of it, and to think of it rightly. I want you to know 
that if I am sorry at all in the thought, it is for the sake of others, 
not myself. Ellie, you yourself will be glad for me in a little 
while ; — you will not wish me back.” 

Ellen shook her head. 

“ I know you will not — after a while ; — and I shall leave you in 
good hands — I have arranged for that, my dear little sister !’ ’ 

The sorrowing child neither knew nor cared what she meant, but 
a mute caress answered the spirit of Alice’s words. 

“ Look up Ellie — look out again. Lovely — lovely ! all that is, 
— but I know heaven is a great deal more lovely. Feasted as our 
eyes are with beauty, I believe that eye has not seen, nor heart im- 
agined the things that God has prepared for them that love him. 
You believe that, Ellie ; you must not be so very sorry that I have 
gone to see it a little before you.” 

Ellen could say nothing. 

“ After all, Ellie, it is not beautiful things nor a beautiful world 
that make people happy — it is loving and being loved ; and that is 
the reason why I am happy in the thought of heaven. I shall, if 
he receives me — I shall be with my Saviour ; I shall see him and 
know him, without any of the clouds that come between here. I 
am often forgetting and displeasing him now, — never serving him 
well nor loving him right. I shall be glad to find myself where 
all that will be done with for ever. I shall be like him ! — Why do 
you cry so, Ellie ?” said Alice tenderly. 

“I can’t help it, Alice.” 


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“It is only my love for you — and for two more — that could 
make me wish to stay here, — nothing else ; — and I give all that up, 
because I do not know what is best for you or myself. And I look 
to meet you all again before long. Try to think of it as I do, 
Ellie.” 

“ But what shall I do without you?” said poor Ellen. 

“ I will tell you, Ellie. You must come here and take my place, 
and take care of those I leave behind ; will you ? — and they will 
take care of you.” 

“ But,” — said Ellen, looking up eagerly, — “ aunt Fortune ” 

“ I have managed all that. Will you do it, Ellen ? I shall 
feel easy and happy about you, and far easier and happier about 
my father, if I leave you established here, to be to him as far as 
you can, what I have been. Will you promise me, Ellie?” 

In words it was not possible ; but what silent kisses, and the 
close pressure of the arms round Alice’s neck could say was said. 

“ I am satisfied, then,” said Alice presently. “ My father will 
be your father — think him so, dear Ellie, — and I know John will 
take care of you. And my place will not be empty. I am very, 
very glad.” 

Ellen felt her place surely would be empty, but she could not 
say so. 

“ It was for this I was so glad of your aunt’s marriage, Ellie,” 
Alice soon went on. “ I foresaw she might raise some difficulties 
in my way, — hard to remove perhaps ; — but now I have seen Mr. 
Van Brunt, and he has promised me that nothing shall hinder 
your taking up your abode and making your home entirely here. 
Though I believe, Ellie, he would truly have loved to have you 
in his own house.” 

“I am sure he would,” said Ellen, — “but oh, how much 
rather ’ ’ 

“ He behaved very well about it the other morning, — in a very 
manly, frank, kind way, — showed a good deal of feeling I think, 
too. He gave me to understand that for his own sake he should 
be extremely sorry to let you go ; but he assured me that nothing 
over which he had any control should stand in the way of your 
good.” 

“ He is very kind — he is very good — he is always so,” said 
Ellen. “I love Mr. Van Brunt very much. He always was as 
kind to me as he could be.” 

They were silent for a few minutes, and Alice was looking out 
of the window again. The sun had set, and the colouring of all 
without was graver. Yet it was but the change from one beauty 
to another. The sweet air seemed still sweeter than before the 
sun went down. 

“ You must be happy, dear Ellie, in knowing that I am. I am 


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433 


happy now. I enjoy all this, and I love you all, — but I can leave 
it and can leave you, — yes, both, — for I would see Jesus ! He 
who has taught me to love him will not forsake me now. Good- 
ness and mercy have followed me all the days of my life, and I 
shall dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. I thank him ! Oh 
I thank him !” 

Alice’s face did not belie her words, though her eyes shone 
through tears. 

“ Elbe, dear, — you must love him with all your heart, and live 
constantly in his presence. I know if you do he will make you 
happy, in any event. He can always give more than he takes 
away. Oh, how good he is ! — and what wretched returns we 
make him ! — I was miserable when John first went away to Don- 
caster ; I did not know how to bear it. But now, Elbe, I think I 
can see it has done me good, and I can even be thankful for it. 
All things are ours — all things ; — the world, and life, and death 
too.” 

“ Alice,” said Ellen, as well as she could, — “ you know what 
you were saying to me the other day ?” 

“About what, love?” 

“ That about — you know, — that chapter ’ 

“ About the death of Lazarus ?” 

“ Yes. It has comforted me very much.” 

“ So it has me, Elbe. It has been exceeding sweet to me at 
different times. Come sing to me, — £ How firm a foundation.’ ” 

From time to time Alice led to this kind of conversation, both 
for Ellen’s sake and her own pleasure. Meanwhile she made her 
go on with her usual studies and duties ; and but for these talks 
Ellen would have scarce known how to believe that it could be 
true which she feared. 

The wedding of Miss Fortune and Mr. Van Brunt was a very 
quiet one. It happened at far too busy a time of year, and they 
were too cool calculators, and looked upon their union in much too 
business-like a point of view, to dream of such a wild thing as a 
wedding-tour, or even resolve upon so troublesome a thing as a 
wedding-party. Miss Fortune would not have left her cheese and 
butter-making to see all the New Yorks and Bostons that ever 
were built ; and she would have scorned a trip to Bandolph. And 
Mr. Van Brunt would as certainly have wished himself all the 
while back among his furrows and crops. So one day they were 
quietly married at home, the Bev. Mr. Clark having been fetched 
from Thirl wall for the purpose. Mr. Van Brunt would have pre- 
ferred that Mr. Humphreys should perform the ceremony ; but 
Miss Fortune was quite decided in favor of the Thirlwall gentle- 
man, and of course he it was. 

The talk ran high all over the country on the subject of this 
t cc 37 


434 


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marriage, and opinions were greatly divided ; some congratulating 
Mr. Van Brunt on having made himself one of the richest land- 
holders “ in town” by the junction of another fat farm to his own ; 
some pitying him for having got more than his match within doors, 
and “guessing he’d missed his reckoning for once.” 

“If he has, then,” said Sam Larkens, who heard some of these 
condoling remarks, — “it’s the first time in his life, I can tell you. 
If she ain’t a little mistaken, I wish I mayn’t get a month’s wages 
in a year to come. I tell you, you don’t know Van Brunt ; he’s 
as easy as any body as long as he don’t care about what you’re 
doing ; but if he once takes a notion you can’t make him gee nor 
haw no more than you can our near ox Timothy when he’s out o’ 
yoke ; and he’s as ugly a beast to manage as ever I see when he 
ain’t yoked up. Why bless you ! there ha’ n’t been a thing done on 
the farm this five years but just what he liked — she don’t know it. 
I’ve heerd her,” said Sam chuckling, — “I’veheerd her a telling 
him how she wanted this thing done, and t’other, and he’d just not 
say a word and go and do it right t’other way. It’ll be a wonder 
if somebody ain’t considerably startled in her calculations ’afore 
summer’s out.” 


CHAPTER XLII. 

She enjoys sure peace for evermore, 

As weather-beaten ship arrived on happy shore. 

Spenser. 

It was impossible at first to make Mr. Humphreys believe that 
Alice was right in her notion about her health. The greatness of 
the evil was such that his mind refused to receive it, much as 
Ellen’s had done. His unbelief however lasted longer than hers. 
Constantly with Alice as she was, and talking to her on the subject, 
Ellen slowly gave up the hope she had clung to ; though still, 
bending all her energies to the present pleasure and comfort of her 
adopted sister, her mind shrank from looking at the end. Daily 
and hourly, in every way, she strove to be what Alice said she was, 
a comfort to her, and she succeeded. Daily and hourly Alice’s 
look and smile and manner said the same thing over and over. It 
was Ellen’s precious reward, and in seeking to earn it she half the 
time earned another in forgetting herself. It was different with 
Mr. Humphreys. He saw much 'less of his daughter ; and when 
he was with her, it was impossible for Alice, with all her efforts, to 
speak to him as freely and plainly as she was in the habit of speak- 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 435 

ing to Ellen. The consequences were such as grieved her, but 
could not be helped. 

As soon as it was known that her health was failing, Sophia 
Marshman came and took up her abode at the parsonage. Ellen 
was almost sorry ; it broke up in a measure the sweet and peaceful 
way of life she and Alice had held together ever since her own 
)} coming. Miss Sophia could not make a third in their conversa- 
■i tions. But as Alice’s strength grew less and she needed more at- 
i tendance and help, it was plain her friend’s being there waS a happy 
thing for both Alice and Ellen. Miss Sophia was active, cheerful, 
untiring in her affectionate care, always pleasant in manner and 
k temper ; a very useful person in a house where one was ailing. 
Mrs. Vawse was often there too, and to her Ellen clung, whenever 
she came, as to a pillar of strength. Miss Sophia could do nothing 
j to help her ; Mrs. Vawse could, a great deal. 

Alice had refused to write or allow others to write to her brother. 
She said he was just finishing his course of study at Doncaster; 
she would not have him disturbed or broken off by bad news from 
i home. In August he would be quite through ; the first of August 
i he would be home. 

Before the middle of June, however, her health began to fail 
l much more rapidly than she had counted upon. It became too 
likely that if she waited for his regular return at the first of Au- 
gust she would see but little of her brother. She at last reluctantly 
i: consented that Mrs. Chauncey should write to him ; and from that 
I moment counted the days. 

Her father had scarcely till now given up his old confidence re- 
1 specting her. He came into her room one morning when just 
about to set out for Carra-carra to visit one or two of his poor 
parishioners. 

“ How are you to day, my daughter?” he asked tenderly. 

“ Easy, papa, — and happy,” said Alice. 

“You are looking better,” said he. “We shall have you well 
again among us yet.” 

There was some sorrow for him in Alice’s smile, as she looked 
up at him and answered, “Yes, papa, — in the land where the in- 
i habitant shall no more say * I am sick.’ ” 

He kissed her hastily and went out. 

“ I almost wish I was in your place, Alice,” said Miss Sophia. 

, “ I hope I may be half as happy when my time comes.” 

“What right have you to hope so, Sophia?” said Alice, rather 
sadly. 

“To be sure,” said the other, after a pause, “you have been 
ten times as good as I. I don’t wonder you feel easy when you 
look back and think how blameless your life has been.” 

“Sophia, Sophia!” said Alice, — “you know it is not that. I 


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never did a good thing in all my life that was not mixed and spoiled 
with evil. I never came up to the full measure of duty in any 
matter.” 

“ But surely,” said Miss Sophia, — “ if one does the best one 
can, it will be accepted?” 

“ It won’t do to trust to that, Sophia. God’s law requires per- 
fection ; and nothing less than perfection will be received as pay- 
ment of its demand. If you owe a hundred dollars, and your 
creditor will not hold you quit for any thing less than the whole 
sum, it is of no matter of signification whether you offer him ten 
or twenty.” 

“ Why according to that,” said Miss Sophia. “ it makes no differ- 
ence what kind of life one leads.” 

Alice sighed and shook her head. 

“ The fruit shows what the tree is. Love to God will strive 'to 
please him — always.” 

“ And is it of no use to strive to please him ?” 

“Of no manner of use, if you make that your trust.” 

“ Well I don’t see what one is to trust to,” said Miss Sophia, — 
“if it isn’t a good life.” 

“I will answer you,” said Alice, with a smile in which there 
was no sorrow, — “in some words that I love very much, of an old 
Scotchman, I think ; — ‘ I have taken all my good deeds and all my 
bad, and have cast them together in a heap before the Lord ; and 
from them all I have fled to Jesus Christ, and in him alone I have 
sweet peace.’ ” 

Sophia was silenced for a minute by her look. 

“ Well,” said she, “ I don’t understand it; that is what George 
is always talking about; but I can’t understand him.” 

“ I am very sorry you cannot,” said Alice gravely. 

They were both silent for a little while. 

“ If all Christians were like you,” said Miss Sophia, “ I might 
think more about it ; but they are such a dull set ; there seems to 
be no life nor pleasure among them.” 

Alice thought of these lines, — 


Their pleasures rise to things unseen, 

Beyond the bounds of time; 

Where neither eyes nor ears have been, 

Nor thoughts of mortals climb. 

“You judge,” said she, “like the rest of the world, of that 
which they see not. After all, they know best whether they are 
happy. What do you think of Mrs. Vawse?” 

“ I don’t know what to think of her; she is wonderful to me; 
she is past my comprehension entirely. Don’ t make her an ex- 
ample.” 


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“ No, religion has done that for me. What do you think of your 
brother ?’ ’ 

“ George — He is happy, — there is no doubt of that ; he is the 
happiest person in the family, by all odds ; but then — I think he 
has a natural knack at being happy ; — it is impossible for any 
thing to put him out.” 

Alice smiled and shook her head again. 

“Sophistry, Sophia. What do you think of me?" 

“ I don’t see what reason you have to be anything but happy.” 

“ What have I to make me so ?” 

Sophia was silent. Alice laid her thin hand upon hers. 

“ I am leaving all I love in this world. Should I be happy if I 
were not going to somewhat I love better ? Should I be happy 
if I had no secure prospect of meeting with them again ? — or if I 
were doubtful of my reception in that place whither I hope to 
go?” 

Sophia burst into tears. “ Well I don’t know,” said she ; “ I sup- 
pose you are right; but I don’t understand it.” 

Alice drew her face down to hers and whispered something in 
her ear. 

Undoubtedly Alice had much around as well as within her to 
make a declining life happy. Mrs. Yawse and Miss Marshman 
were two friends and nurses not to be surpassed, in their different 
ways. Margery’s motherly affection, her zeal, and her skill, left 
nothing for heart to wish in her line of duty. And all that affec- 
tion, taste, and kindness, which abundant means could supply, was 
at Alice’s command. — Still her greatest comfort was Ellen. Her 
constant thoughtful care; the thousand tender attentions, from the 
roses daily gathered for her table to the chapters she read and the 
hymns she sung to her ; the smile that often covered a pang ; the 
pleasant words and tone that many a time came from a sinking 
heart; they were Alice’s daily and nightly cordial. Ellen had 
learned self-command in more than one school ; affection, as once 
before, was her powerful teacher now, and taught her well. Sophia 
openly confessed that Ellen was the best nurse ; and Margery, 
when nobody heard her, muttered blessings on the child’s head. 

Mr. Humphreys came in often to see his daughter, but never 
stayed long. It was plain he could not bear it. It might have 
been difficult too for Alice to bear, but she wished for her brother. 
She reckoned the time from Mrs. Chauncey’s letter to that when 
he might be looked for ; but some irregularities in the course of 
the post-office made it impossible to count with certainty upon the 
exact time of his arrival. Meanwhile her failure was very rapid. 
Mrs. Yawse began to fear he would not arrive in time. 

The weeks of June ran out ; the roses, all but a few late kinds, 
blossomed and died; July came. 

37 * 


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One morning when Ellen went into her room, Alice drew her 
close to her and said, “ You remember, Ellie, in the Pilgrim’s 
Progress, when Christiana and her companions were sent to go over 
the river ? — I think the messenger has come for me. You mustn’t 
cry, love ; — listen — this is the token he seems to bring me, — £ I 
have loved thee with an everlasting love.’ I am sure of it, Ellie ; 
I have no doubt of it; — so don’t cry for me. You have been my 
dear comfort, my blessing — we shall love each other in heaven, 
Ellie.” 

Alice kissed her earnestly several times, and then Ellen escaped 
from her arms and fled away. It was long before she could come 


back again. But she came at last; and went on through all that 
day as she had done for weeks before. The day seemed long, for 
every member of the family was on the watch for John’s arrival, 
and it was thought his sister would not live to see another. It 
wore away ; hour after hour passed without his coming ; and 
the night fell. Alice showed no impatience, but she evidently 
wished and watched for him ; and Ellen, whose affection read 
her face and knew what to make of the look at the opening 
door, — the eye turned toward the window, — the attitude of listen- 
ing, — grew feverish with her intense desire that she should be 
gratified. 

From motives of convenience, Alice had moved up stairs to a 
room that John generally occupied when he was at home ; directly 


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over the sitting-room, and with pleasant windows toward the east. 
Mrs. Chauncey, Miss Sophia, and Mrs. Yawse, were all there. 
Alice was lying quietly on the bed, and seemed to be dozing ; but 
Ellen noticed, after lights were brought, that every now and then 
she opened her eyes and gave an inquiring look round the room. 
Ellen could not bear it ; slipping softly out she went down stairs 
and seated herself on the threshold of the glass door, as if by 
watching there she could be any nearer the knowledge of what she 
wished for. 

It was a perfectly still summer night. The moon shone brightly 
on the little lawn and poured its rays over Ellen, just as it had 
done one well-remembered evening near a year ago. Ellen’s 
thoughts went back to it. How like and how unlike ! All around 
was just the same as it had been then ; the cool moonlight upon 
the distant fields, the trees in the gap lit up, as then, the lawn a 
flood of brightness. But there was no happy party gathered there 
now; — they were scattered. One was away; one a sorrowful 
watcher alone in the moonlight ; — one waiting to be gone where 
there is no need of moon or stars for evermore. Ellen almost 
wondered they could shine so bright upon those that had no heart 
to rejoice in them ; she thought they looked down coldly and un- 
feelingly upon her distress. She remembered the whip-poor-will ; 
none was heard to-night, near or far ; she was glad of it ; it would 
have been too much ; — and there were no fluttering leaves ; the air 
was absolutely still. Ellen looked up again at the moon and stars. 
They shone calmly on, despite the reproaches she cast upon them ; 
and as she still gazed up toward them in their purity and stead- 
fastness, other thoughts began to come into her head of that which 
was more pure still, and more steadfast. How long they have 
been shining, thought Ellen ; — going on just the same from night 
to night and from year to year, — as if they never would come to 
an end. But they will come to an end — the time will come when 
they stop shining — bright as they are ; and then, when all they 
are swept away, then heaven will be only begun ; that will never 
end ! — never. And in a few years we who were so happy a year 
ago and are so sorry now, shall be all glad together there, — this 
will be all over ! — And then as she looked, and the tears sprang to 
her thoughts, a favorite hymn of Alice’s came to her remembrance. 

Ye stars are but the shining dust 
Of my divine abode; 

The pavements of those heavenly, courts 
Where I shall see my God. 

The Father of eternal lights 
Shall there his beams display ; 

And not one moment’s darkness mix 
With that unvaried day. 


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11 Not one moment’s darkness !” “ Oh,” thought little Ellen, — 
“ there are a great many here!” — Still gazing up at the bright 
calm heavens, while the tears ran fast down her face, and fell into 
her lap, there came trooping through Ellen’s mind many of those 
words she had been in the habit of reading to her mother and 
Alice, and which she knew and loved so well. 

“ And there shall be no night there ; and they need no candle, 
neither light of the sun ; for the Lord God giveth them light : 
and they shall reign for ever and ever. And there shall be no 
more curse, but the throne of God and of the Lamb shall be in it ; 
and his servants shall serve him ; and they shall see his face ; and 
his name shall be in their foreheads. And God shall wipe away 
all tears from their eyes ; and there shall be no more death, 
neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain*: 
for the former things have passed away. 

“ And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again 
and receive you unto myself ; that where I am, there ye may be 
also.” 

While Ellen was yet going over and over these precious things, 
with a strong sense of their preciousness in all her throbbing grief, 
there came to her ear through the perfect stillness of the night the 
faint, far-off, not-to-be-mistaken sound of quick-coming horse’s 
feet, — nearer and nearer every second. It came with a mingled 
pang of pain and pleasure, both very acute ; she rose instantly to 
her feet, and stood pressing her hand to her heart while the quick- 
measured beat of hoofs grew louder and louder, until it ceased at 
the very door. The minutes were few, but they were moments of 
intense bitterness. The tired horse stooped his head, as the rider 
flung himself from the saddle and came to the door where Ellen 
stood fixed. A look asked, and a look answered, the question that 
lips could not speak. Ellen only pointed the way, and uttered the 
words, “up stairs;” and John rushed thither. He checked him- 
self however at the door of the room, and opened it and went in 
as calmly as if he had but come from a walk. But his caution 
was very needless. Alice knew his step, she knew his horse's step 
too well ; she had raised herself up and stretched out both arms 
toward him before he entered. In another moment they were 
round his neck, and she was supported in his. There was a long, 
long silence. 

“ Are you happy, Alice?” whispered her brother. 

“ Perfectly. This was all I wanted. Kiss me, dear John.” 

As he did so, again and again, she felt his tears on her cheek, 
and put up her hands to his face to wipe them away ; kissed him 
then, and then once again laid her head on his breast. They re- 
mained so a little while without stirring ; except that some whispers 
were exchanged too low for others to hear, and once more she 


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raised her face to kiss him. A few minutes after those who could 
look saw his colour change, he felt the arms unclasp their hold ; 
and as he laid her gently back on the pillow they fell languidly 
down ; the will and the power that had sustained them were gone. V 
Alice was gone ; but the departing spirit had left a ray of bright- 
ness on its earthly house ; there was a half smile on the sweet face, 
of most entire peace and satisfaction. Her brother looked for a 
moment, — closed the eyes, — kissed, once and again, the sweet lips, 
— and left the room. 

Ellen saw him no more that night, nor knew how he passed it. 
For her, wearied with grief and excitement, it was spent in long 
heavy slumber. From the pitch to which her spirits had been 
wrought by care, sorrow, and self-restraint, they now suddenly and 
completely sank down ; naturally and happily, she lost all sense of 
trouble in sleep. 

When sleep at last left her, and she stole down stairs into the 
sitting-room in the morning, it was rather early. Nobody was 
stirring about the house but herself. It seemed deserted ; the old 
sitting-room looked empty and forlorn ; the stillness was oppressive. 
Ellen could not bear it. Softly opening the glass door she went 
out upon the lawn where every thing was sparkling in the early 
freshness of the summer morning. How could it look so pleasant 
without, when all pleasantness was gone within? — It pressed upon 
Ellen’s heart. With a restless feeling of pain, she went on, round 
the corner of the house, and paced slowly along the road till she 
came to the foot-path that led up to the place on the mountain 
John had called the Bridge of the Nose. Ellen took that path, 
often travelled and much loved by her; and slowly, with slow- 
dripping tears, made her way up over moss wet with the dew, and 
the stones and rocks with which the rough way was strewn. She 
passed the place where Alice had first found her, — she remembered 
it well ; — there was the very stone beside which they had kneeled 
together, and where Alice’s folded hands were laid. Ellen knelt 
down beside it again, and for a moment laid her cheek to the cold 
stone while her arms embraced it, and a second time it was watered 
with tears. She rose up again quickly and went on her way, toiling 
up the steep path beyond, till she turned the edge of the mountain 
and stood on the old place where she and Alice that evening had 
watched the setting sun. Many a setting sun they had watched 
from thence ; it had been a favourite pleasure of them both to run 
up there for a few minutes before or after tea and see the sun go 
down at the far end of the long valley. It seemed to Ellen one 
of Alice’s haunts; she missed her there; and the thought went 
keenly home that there she would come with her no more. She 
sat down on the stone she called her own, and leaning her head on 
Alice’s which was- close by, she wept bitterly, yet not very long; 


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she was too tired and subdued for bitter weeping ; she raised her 
head again, and wiping away her tears looked abroad over the 
beautiful landscape. Never more beautiful than then. 

The early sun filled the valley with patches of light and shade. 
The sides and tops of the hills looking toward the east were bright 
with the cool brightness of the morning; beyond and between 
them deep shadows lay. The sun could not yet look at that side 
of the mountain where Ellen sat, nor at the long reach of ground 
it screened from his view, stretching from the mountain foot to the 
other end of the valley ; but to the left, between that and the Cat’s 
back, the rays of the sun streamed through, touching the houses 
of the village, showing the lake, and making every tree and barn 
and clump of wood in the distance stand out in bright relief. 
Deliciously cool, both the air and the light, though a warm day 
was promised. The night had swept away all the heat of yesterday. 
Now, the air was fresh with the dew and sweet from hayfield and 
meadow ; and the birds were singing like mad all around. There 
was no answering echo in the little human heart that looked and 
listened. Ellen loved all these things too well not to notice them 
even now ; she felt their full beauty ; but she felt it sadly. “ She 
will look at it no more !” she said to herself. But instantly came 
an answer to her thought ; — “ Behold I create new heavens, and a 
new earth ; and the former shall not be remembered, nor come into 
mind. Thy sun shall no more go down ; neither shall thy moon 
withdraw itself : for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and 
the days of thy mourning shall be ended.” 

“She is there now,” thought Ellen, — “she is happy, — why 
should I be sorry for her ? Iam not ; but oh ! I must be sorry for 
myself — Oh, Alice ! — dear Alice !” 

She wept ; but then again came sweeping over her mind the 
words with which she was so familiar, — •“ the days of thy mourn- 
ing shall be ended;” and again with her regret mingled the con- 
sciousness that it must be for herself alone. And for herself, — 
“ Can I not trust Him whom she trusted?” she thought. Some- 
what soothed and more calm, she sat still looking down into the 
brightening valley or off to the hills that stretched away on either 
hand of it ; when up through the still air the sound of the little 
Carra-carra church bell came to her ear. It rang for a minute and 
then stopped. 

It crossed Ellen’s mind to wonder what it could be ringing for at 
that time of day ; but she went back to her musings and had 
entirely forgotten it, when again, clear and full through the stillness 
the sound came pealing up. 

“ One — two !” 

Ellen knew now ! It went through her very heart. 

It is the custom in the country to toll the church bell upon 


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occasion of the death of any one in the township or parish. A 
few strokes are rung by way of drawing attention ; these are fol- 
lowed after a little pause by a single one if the knell is for man, or 
two for a woman. Then another short pause. Then follows the 
number of the years the person has lived, told in short, rather slow 
strokes, as one would count them up. After pausing once more the 
tolling begins, and is kept up for some time ; the strokes following 
in slow and sad succession, each one being permitted to die quite 
away before another breaks upon the ear. 

Ellen had been told of this custom, but habit had never made it 
familiar. Only once she had happened to hear this notice of death 
given out ; and that was long ago ; the bell could not be heard at 
Miss Fortune’s house. It came upon her now with all the force 
of novelty and surprise. As the number of the years of Alice’s 
life was sadly tolled out, every. stroke was to her as if it fell upon a 
raw nerve. Ellen hid her face in her lap and tried to keep from 
counting, but she could not ; and as the tremulous sound of the 
last of the twenty-four died away upon the air, she was shuddering 
from head to foot. A burst of tears relieved her when the sound 
ceased. 

Just then a voice clpse beside her said low, as if the speaker 
might not trust its higher tones, — “ I will lift up mine eyes unto 
the hills, from whence cometh my help !” 

How differently that sound struck upon Ellen’s ear ! With an 
indescribable air of mingled tenderness, weariness, and sorrow, she 
slowly rose from her seat and put both her arms round the speak- 
er’s neck. Neither said a word ; but to Ellen the arm that held 
her was more than all words ; it was the dividing line between her 
and the world, — on this side every thing, on that side nothing. 

No word was spoken for many minutes. 

“My dear Ellen,” said her brother softly, — “how came you 
here?” 

“ I don’t know,” whispered Ellen, — “ there was nobody there — 
I couldn’t stay in the house.” 

“ Shall we go home now ?” 

“ Oh, yes — whenever you please. 

But neither moved yet. Ellen had raised her head ; she still 
stood with her arm upon her brother’s shoulder; the eyes of both 
were on the scene before them ; the thoughts of neither. He 
presently spoke again. 

“ Let us try to love our God better, Elbe, the less we have left 
to love in this world ; — that is his meaning — let sorrow but bring 
us closer to him. Hear Alice is well — she is well, — and if we are 
made to suffer, we know and we love the hand that has done it, — 
do we not Ellie ?” 

Ellen put her hands to her face ; she thought her heart would 


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break. He gently drew her to a seat on the stone beside him, and 
still keeping his arm round her, slowly and soothingly went on — 

11 Think that she is happy ; — think that she is safe ; — think that 
she is with that blessed One whose face we seek at a distance, — 
satisfied with his likeness instead of wearily struggling with sin ; 
— think that sweetly and easily she has got home ; and it is our 
home too. We must weep, because we are left alone ; but for her 
— 1 I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Blessed are the 
dead that die in the Lord !’ ” 

As he spoke in low and sweet tones, Ellen’s tears calmed and 
stopped ; but she still kept her hands to her face. 

“Shall we go home, Elbe ?” said her brother after another si- 
lence. She rose up instantly and said yes. But he held her still, 
and looking for a moment at the tokens of watching and grief and 
care in her countenance, he gently kissed the pale little face, adding 
a word of endearment which almost broke Ellen’s heart again. 
Then taking her hand they went down the mountain together. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

I have seen angels by the sick one’s pillow ; 

Theirs was the soft tone and the soundless tread, 

Where smitten hearts were drooping like the willow, 

They stood ‘ between the living and the dead.’ 

Unknown. 

The whole Marshman family arrived to day from Ventnor ; some 
to see Alice’s loved remains, and all to follow them to the grave. 
The parsonage could not hold so many ; the two Mr. Marshmans, 
therefore, with Major and Mrs. Gillespie, made their quarters at 
Thirlwall. Margery’s hands were full enough with those that were 
left. 

In the afternoon however she found time for a visit to the room, 
the room. She was standing at the foot of the bed, gazing on the 
sweet face she loved so dearly, when Mrs. Chauncey and Mrs. 
Yawse came up for the same purpose. All three stood some time 
in silence. 

The bed was strewn with flowers, somewhat singularly disposed. 
Upon the pillow, and upon and about the hands which were folded 
on the breast, were scattered some of the rich late roses, — roses 
and rose-buds, strewn with beautiful and profuse carelessness. A 
single stem of white lilies lay on the side of the bed ; the rest of 
the flowers, a large quantity, covered the feet, seeming to have been 
flung there without any attempt at arrangement. They were of 


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various kinds, chosen however with exquisite taste and feeling. 
Besides the roses, there were none that were not either white or dis- 
tinguished for their fragrance. The delicate white verbena, the 
pure feverfew, mignonette, sweet geranium, white myrtle, the rich- 
scented heliotrope, were mingled with the late-blossoming damask 
and purple roses ; no yellow flowers, no purple except those men- 
tioned ; even the flaunting petunia, though white, had been left out 
by the nice hand that had culled them. But the arranging of these 
beauties seemed to have been little more than attempted ; though 
indeed it might be questioned whether the finest heart could have 
bettered the effect of what the over- tasked hand of affection had 
left half done. Mrs. Chauncey however after a while began slowly 
to take a flower or two from the foot and place them on other parts 
of the bed. 

“ Will Mrs. Chauncey pardon my being so bold,” said Margery 
then, who had looked on with no pleasure while this was doing, — 
“ but if she had seen when those flowers were put there, — it 
wouldn’t be her wish, I am sure it wouldn’t be her wish, to stir one 
of them.” 

Mrs. Chauncey’ s hand, which was stretched out for a fourth, drew 
back. 

“ Why who put them there?” she asked. 

“ Miss Ellen, ma’am.” 

“ Where is Ellen ?” 

“ I think she is sleeping, ma’am. Poor child ! she’s the most 
wearied of us all with sorrow and watching,” said Margery weeping. 

“ You saw her bring them up, did you ?” 

“ I saw her, ma’am. Oh, will I ever forget it as long as I live !” 

“Why?” said Mrs. Chauncey gently. 

“It’s a thing one should have seen, ma’am, to understand. I 
don’t know as I can tell in well.” 

Seeing however that Mrs. Chauncey still looked her wish, 
Margery went on, half under her breath. 

“Why, ma’am, the way it was, — I had come up to get some 
linen out of the closet, for I had watched my time ; Mrs. Chauncey 
sees, I was afeard of finding Mr. John here, and I knew he was 
lying down just then, so ” 

“ Lying down, was he?” said Mrs. Yawse. “ I did not know he 
had taken any rest to-day.” 

“It was very little he took, ma’am, indeed, though there was 
need enough I am sure he had been up with his father the live- 
long blessed night. And then the first thing this morning he was 
away after Miss Ellen, poor child ! wherever she had betaken her- 
self to ; I happened to see her before any body was out, going 
round the corner of the house, and so I knew when he asked me 
for her.” 


38 


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“ Was she going after flowers then?" said Mrs. Chauncey. 

“ Oh, no, ma’am, — it was a long time after; it was this morning 
some time. — I had come up to the linen closet, knowing Mr. John 
was in his room, and I thought I was safe; and I had just taken 
two or three pieces on my arm, you know, ma’am, when somehow 
I forgot myself, and forgot what I had come for, and leaving what 
I should ha’ been a doing, I was standing there, looking out this 
way at the dear features I never thought to see in death — and I 
had entirely forgotten what I was there for, ma’am, — when I heard 
Miss Ellen’s little footstep coming softly up stairs. I didn’t want 
her to catch sight of me just then, so I had just drew myself back 
a bit, so as I could see her without her seeing me back in the closet 
where I was. But it had like to have got the better of me entirely, 
ma’am, when I see her come in with a lap full of them flowers, 
and looking so as she did too ! but with much trouble I kept quiet. 
She went up and stood by the side of the bed, just where Mrs. 
Chauncey is standing, with her sweet sad little face, — it’s the 
hardest thing to see a child’s face look so, — and the flowers all 
gathered up in her frock. It was odd to see her, she didn’t cry, — 
not at all — only once I saw her brow wrinkle, but it seemed as if she 
had a mind not to, for she put her hand up to her face and held it 
a little, and then she began to take out the flowers one by one, and 
she’d lay a rose here and a rose-bud there, and so ; and then she 
went round to the other side and laid the lilies, and two or three 
more roses there on the pillow. But I could see all the while it 
was getting too much for her; I see very soon she wouldn’t get 
through ; she just placed two or three more, and one rose there in 
that hand, and that was the last. I could see it working in her 
face ; she turned as pale as her lilies all at once, and just tossed up 
all the flowers out of her frock on the bed-foot there, — that’s just 
as they fell, — and down she went on her knees, and her face in her 
hands on the side of the bed. I thought no more about my linen,” 
said Margery weeping, — “ I couldn’t do any thing but look at that 
child kneeling there, and her flowers, — and all beside her she used 
to call her sister, and that couldn’t be a sister to her no more ; and 
she’s without a sister now to be sure, poor child!” 

“ She has a brother, unless lam mistaken,” said Mrs. Chauncey, 
when she could speak. 

“ And that’s just what I was going to tell you, ma’am. She had 
been there five or ten minutes without moving, or more — I am sure 
I don’t know how long it was, I didn’t think how time went, — when 
the first thing I knew I heard another step, and Mr. John came in. 
I thought, and expected, he was taking some sleep ; but I suppose,” 
said Margery sighing, “ he couldn’t rest. I knew his step and just 
drew myself back further. He came just where you are, ma’am, 
and stood with his arms folded a long time looking. I don’t know 


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U7 

how Miss Ellen didn’t hear him come in ; but however she didn’t; 
— and they were both as still as death, one on one side, and the 
other on the other side. And I wondered he didn’t see her; but 
her white dress and all — and I suppose he had no thought but for 
one thing. I knew the first minute he did see her, when he looked 
over and spied her on the other side of the bed ; — I see his colour 
change ; and then his mouth took the look it always did whenever 
he sets himself to do any thing. He stood a minute, and then he 
went round and knelt down beside of her, and softly took away one 
of her hands from under her face, and held it in both of his own, 
and then he made such a prayer ! — Oh,” said Margery, her tears 
falling fast at the recollection, — “ I never heard the like ! I never 
did ! He gave thanks for Miss Alice, and he had reason enough 
to be sure, — and for himself and Miss Ellen — I wondered to hear 
him ! — and he prayed for them too, and others, — and — oh, I thought 
I couldn’t stand and hear him ; and I was afeard to breathe the 
whole time, lest he would know I was there. It was the beauti- 
fullest prayer I did ever hear, or ever shall, however.” 

“ And how did Ellen behave?” said Mrs. Chauncey, when she 
could speak. 

“ She didn’t stir, nor make the least motion nor sound, till he had 
done, and spoke to her. They stood a little while then, and Mr. 
John put the rest of the flowers up there round her hands and the 
pillow, — Miss Ellen hadn’t put more than half a dozen ; — I no- 
ticed how he kept hold of Miss Ellen’s hand all the time. I heard 
her begin to tell him how she didn’t finish the flowers, and he told 
her, ‘ I saw it all, Elbe,’ he said ; and he said ‘ it didn’t want fin- 
ishing.’ I wondered how he should see it, but I suppose he did, 
however. I understood it very well. They went away down stairs 
after that.” 

“ He is beautifully changed,” said Mrs. Vawse. 

“I don’t know, ma’am,” said Margery, — “ I’ve heard that said 
afore, but I can’t say as I ever could see it. He always was the 
same to me — always the honourablest, truest, noblest — my husband 
says he was a bit fiery, but I never could tell that the one temper 
was sweeter than the other ; only every body always did whatever 
Mr. John wanted, to be sure ; but he was the perfectest gentleman, 
always.” 

“ I have not seen either Mr. John or Ellen since my mother came,” 
said Mrs. Chauncey. 

“No, ma’am,” said Margery, — “they were out reading under 
the trees for a long time ; and Miss Ellen came in the kitchen-way 
a little while ago and went to lie down.” 

“ How is Mr. Humphreys ?” 

“ Oh, I can’t tell you, ma’am, — he is worse than any one knows 
of I am afraid, unless Mr. John ; you will not see him, ma’am ; he 


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has not been here once, nor don’t mean to, I think. It will go 
hard with my poor master, I am afraid,” said Margery weeping ; — 
“dear Miss Alice said Miss Ellen was to take her place; but it 
would want an angel to do that.” 

“ Ellen will do a great deal,” said Mrs. Yawse; — “ Mr. Hum- 
phreys loves her well now, I know.” 

“ So do I, ma’am, I am sure ; and so does every one ; but still — ” 

Margery broke off her sentence and sorrowfully went down stairs. 
Mrs. Chauncey moved no more flowers. 

Late in the afternoon of the next day Margery came softly into 
Ellen’s room. 

“ Miss Ellen, dear, you are awake, aren’t you?” 

“ Yes, Margery,” said Ellen, sitting up on the bed ; — “ come in. 
What is it?” 

“ I came to ask Miss Ellen if she could do me a great favour ; 
— there’s a strange gentleman come, and nobody has seen him yet, 
and it don’t seem right. He has been here this some time.” 

“ Have you told Mr. John?” 

“No, Miss Ellen; he’s in the library with my master; and 
somehow I durstn’t go to the door; mayhap they wouldn’t be best 
pleased. Would Miss Ellen mind telling Mr. John of the gentle- 
man’s being here?” 

Ellen would mind it very much, there was no doubt of that ; 
Margery could hardly have asked her to put a greater force upon 
herself ; she did not say so. 

“ You are sure he is there, Margery?” 

“ I am quite sure, Miss Ellen. I am very sorry to disturb you ; 
but if you wouldn’t mind — I am ashamed to have the gentleman 
left to himself so long.” 

“ I’ll do it, Margery.” 

She got up, slipped on her shoes, and mechanically smoothing 
her hair, set off to the library. On the way she almost repented 
her willingness to oblige Margery ; the errand was marvellous dis- 
agreeable to her. She had never gone to that room except with 
Alice ; never entered it uninvited. She could hardly make up her 
mind to knock at the door. But she had promised ; it must be 
done. 

The first fearful tap was too light to arouse any mortal ears. At 
the second, though not much better, she heard some one move, and 
John opened the door. Without waiting to hear her speak he im- 
mediately drew her in, very unwillingly on her part, and led her 
silently up to his father. The old gentleman was sitting in his 
great study-chair with a book open at his side. He turned from 
it as she came up, took her hand in his, and held it for a few mo- 
ments without speaking. Ellen dared not raise her eyes. 

“My little girl,” said he very \ gravely, though not without a 


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tone of kindness too, — u are you coming here to cheer my loneli- 
ness ?’ ’ 

Ellen in vain struggled to speak an articulate word ; it was impos- 
sible ; she suddenly stooped down and touched her lips to the hand 
that lay on the arm of the chair. He put the hand tenderly upon 
her head. 

“ God bless you,” said he, “ abundantly, for all the love you 
showed her. Come,— if you will,— and be, as far as a withered 
heart will let you, all that she wished. All is yours — except what 
will be buried with her.” 

Ellen was awed and pained very much. Not because the words 
and manner were sad and solemn ; it was the tone that distressed 
her. There was no tearfulness in it ; it trembled a little ; it seemed 
to come indeed from a withered heart. She shook with the effort 
she made to control herself. John asked her presently what she 
had come for. 

“A gentleman,” said Ellen, — “ there’s a gentleman — a stranger — ” 

He went immediately out to see him, leaving her standing there. 
Ellen did not know whether to go too or stay ; she thought from 
his not taking her with him he wished her to stay ; she stood doubt- 
fully. Presently she heard steps coming back along the hall — 
steps of two persons — the door opened, and the strange gentleman 
came in. No stranger to Ellen! she knew him in a moment; it 
was her old friend, her friend of the boat, — Mr. George Marshman. 

Mr. Humphreys rose up to meet him, and the two gentlemen 
shook hands in silence. Ellen had at first shrunk out of the way 
to the other side of the room, and now when she saw an oppor- 
tunity she was going to make her escape ; but John gently de- 
tained her ; and she stood still by his side, though with a kind of 
feeling that it was not there the best place or time for her old friend 
to recognise her. Ho was sitting by Mr. Humphreys and for the 
present quite occupied with him. Ellen thought nothing of what 
they were saying ; with eyes eagerly fixed upon Mr. Marshman she 
was reading memory’s long story over again. The same pleasant 
look and kind tone that she remembered so well came to comfort 
her in her first sorrow, — the old way of speaking, and even of 
moving an arm or hand, the familiar figure and face ; how they 
took Ellen’s thoughts back to the deck of the steamboat, the hymns, 
the talks ; the love and kindness that led and persuaded her so 
faithfully and effectually to do her duty ; — it was all present again ; 
and Ellen gazed at him as at a picture of the past, forgetting for 
the moment every thing- else. The same love and kindness were 
endeavouring now to say something for Mr. Humphreys’ relief; it 
was a hard task. The old gentleman heard and answered, for the 
most part briefly, but so as to show that his friend laboured in 
vain ; the bitterness and hardness of grief were unallayed yet. It 
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was not till John made some slight remark that Mr. Marshman 
turned his head that way ; he looked for a moment in some sur- 
prise, and then said, his countenance lightening, “ Is that Ellen 
Montgomery ?” 

Ellen sprang across at that word to take his out-stretched hand. 
But as she felt the well-remembered grasp of it, and met the old 
look the thought of which she had treasured up for years, — it was 
too much. Back as in a flood to her heart, seemed to come at 
once all the thoughts and feelings of the time since then ; — the 
difference of this meeting from the joyful one she had so often 
pictured to herself ; the sorrow of that time mixed with the sorrow 
now ; and the sense that the very hand that had wiped those first 
tears away was the one now laid in the dust by death. All 
thronged on her heart at once ; and it was too much. She had 
scarce touched Mr. Marshman’ s hand when she hastily withdrew 
her own, and gave way to an overwhelming burst of sorrow. It 
was infectious. There was such an utter absence of all bitterness 
or hardness in the tone of this grief ; there was so touching an ex- 
pression of submission mingled with it, that even Mr. Humphreys 
was overcome. Ellen was not the only subdued weeper there ; 
not the only one whose tears came from a broken-up heart. For a 
few minutes the silence of stifled sobs was in the room, till Ellen 
recovered enough to make her escape ; and then the colour of 
sorrow was lightened, in one breast at least. 

u Brother,” said Mr. Humphreys, — “ I can hear you now better 
than I could a little while ago. I had almost forgotten that God 
is good. ‘ Light in the darkness — I see it now. That child has 
given me a lesson.” 

Ellen did not know what had passed around her, nor what had 
followed her quitting the room. But she thought when John 
came to the tea-table he looked relieved. If his general kindness 
and tenderness of manner toward herself could have been greater 
than usual, she might have thought it was that night; but she 
only thought he felt better. 

Mr. Marshman was not permitted to leave the house. He was 
a great comfort to every body. Not himself overburdened with 
sorrow, he was able to make that effort for the good of the rest 
which no one yet had been equal to. The whole family, except 
Mr. Humphreys, were gathered together at this time; and his 
grave cheerful unceasing kindness made that by far the most 
comfortable meal that had been taken. It was exceeding grateful 
to Ellen to see and hear him, from the old remembrance as well as. 
the present effect. And he had not forgotten his old kindness for 
her ; she saw it in his look, his words, his voice, shown in every 
way ; and the feeling that she had got her old friend again and 
should never lose him now gave her more deep pleasure than any 


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thing else could possibly have done at that time. His own family 
too had not seen him in a long time, so his presence was matter of 
general satisfaction. 

Later in the evening Ellen was sitting beside him on the sofa, 
looking and listening, — he was like a piece of old music to her, — 
when John came to the back of the sofa and said he wanted to 

I speak to her. She went with him to the other side of the room. 
“ Ellie,” said he in a low voice, “ I think my father would like 
to hear you sing a hymn, — do you think you could ?” 

Ellen loooked up, with a peculiar mixture of uncertainty and 
resolution in her countenance, and said yes. 

“ Not if it will pain you too much, — and not unless you think 
you can surely go through with it, Ellen,” he said gently. 

“ No,” said Ellen ; — “ I will try.” 

il Will it not give you too much pain ? do you think you can ?” 
“No — I will try,” she repeated. 

As she went along the hall she said and resolved to herself that 
she would do it. The library was dark ; coming from the light 
Ellen at first could see nothing. John placed her in a chair, and 
went away himself to a little distance where he remained perfectly 
still. She covered her face with her hands for a minute, and 
prayed for strength ; she was afraid to try. ' 

Alice and her brother were remarkable for beauty of voice and 
utterance. The latter Ellen had in part caught from them ; in the 
former she thought herself greatly inferior. Perhaps she under- 
rated herself ; her voice, though not indeed powerful, was low and 
sweet and very clear ; and the entire simplicity and feeling with 
which she sang hymns was more effectual than any higher quali- 
ties of tone and compass. She had been very much accustomed 
to sing with Alice, who excelled in beautiful truth and simplicity 
of expression ; listening with delight, as she had often done, and 
often joining with her, Ellen had caught something of her manner. 

She thought nothing of all this now ; she had a trying task to 
go through. Sing ! — then, and there ! — And what should she 
sing ? All that class of hymns that bore directly on the subject 
of their sorrow must be left on one side ; she hardly dared think 
of them. Instinctively she took up another class, that without 
baring the wound would lay the balm close to it. A few minutes 
of deep stillness were in the dark room ; then very low, and in 
tones that trembled a little, rose the words, 


How sweet the name of Jesus sounds 
In a believer’s ear ; 

It soothes his sorrows, heals his wounds, 
And drives away his fear. 


The tremble in her voice ceased, as she went on, — 


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It makes the wounded spirit whole, 

And calms the troubled breast ; 

'Tis manna to the hungry soul, 

And to the weary, rest. 

By him my prayers acceptance gain, 

Although with sin defiled ; 

Satan accuses me in vain, 

And I am owned a child. 

Weak is the effort of my heart, 

And cold my warmest thought,- •• 

But when I see thee as thou art, 

I’ll praise thee as I ought. 

Till then I would thy love proclaim 
With every lab’ring breath ; 

And may the music of thy name 
Kefresh my soul in death. 

Ellen paused a minute. There was not a sound to be heard in 
the room. She thought of the hymn, “Loving Kindness;” but 
the tune, and the spirit of the words, was too lively. Her 
mother’s favourite, “ ’Tis my happiness below,” but Ellen could 
not venture that ; she strove to forget it as fast as possible. She 
sang, clearly and sweetly as ever now, 


Hark my soul, it is the Lord, 

’Tis thy Saviour, hear his word ; — 
Jesus speaks, and speaks to thee, 

“ Say, poor sinner, lovest thou me ? 

“ I delivered thee when bound, 

And when bleeding healed thy wound; 
Sought thee wandering, set thee right, 
Turned thy darkness into light. 

“ Can a mother’s tender care 
Cease toward the child she bare ? 

Yea — she may forgetful be, 

Yet will I remember thee. 

“ Mine is an unchanging love ; 

Higher than the heights above, 

Deeper than the depths beneath, 

Free and faithful, strong as death. 

“ Thou shalt see my glory soon, 

When the work of life is done, 

Partner of my throne shalt be, — 

Say, poor sinner, lovest thou me ?” 

Lord, it is my chief complaint 
That my love is weak and faint ; 

Yet I love thee and adore, — 

Oh, for grace to love thee more ! 


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Ellen’s task was no longer painful, but most delightful. She 
hoped she was doing some good ; and that hope enabled her, after 
the first trembling beginning, to go on without any difficulty. She 
was not thinking of herself. It was very well she could not see 
the .effect upon her auditors. Through the dark her eyes could 
only just discern a dark figure stretched upon the sofa and another 
standing by the mantel-piece. The room was profoundly still, 
except when she was singing. The choice of hymns gave her the 
greatest trouble. She thought of “ Jerusalem, my happy home,” 
but it would not do ; she and Alice had too often sung it in strains 
of joy. Happily came to her mind the beautiful, 

“ How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord,” &c. 

She went through all the seven long verses. Still when Ellen 
paused at the end of this, the breathless silence seemed to invite 
her to go on. She waited a minute to gather breath. The blessed 
words had gone down into her very heart ; did they ever seem 
half so sweet before? She was cheered and strengthened, and 
thought she could go through with the next hymn, though it had 
been much loved and often used, both by her mother and Alice. 


Jesus, lover of my soul. 

Let me to thy bosom fly, 

While the billows near me roll, 

While the tempest still is nigh. 

Hide me, 0 my Sayiour, hide, 

Till the storm of life be past : — 

Safe into the haven guide, — 

0 receive my soul at last ! 

Other refuge have I none, 

Hangs my helpless soul on thee — 

Leave, ah ! leave me not alone ! 

Still support and comfort me. 

All my trust on thee is stayed, 

All my help from thee I bring ; — 

Cover my defenceless head 
Beneath the shadow of thy wing. 

Thou, 0 Christ, art all I want; 

More than all in thee I find ; 

Raise the fallen, cheer the faint, 

Heal the sick, and lead the blind. 

Just and holy is thy name, 

1 am all unrighteousness ; 

Vile and full of sin I am, 

Thou art full of truth and grace. 

Still silence ; — “ silence that spoke !” Ellen did not know what 
it said, except that her hearers did not wish her to stop. Her next 
was a favourite hymn of them all. 

“ What are these in bright array,” <tc. 


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Ellen had allowed her thoughts to travel too far along with the 
words, for in the last lines her voice was unsteady and faint. She 
was fain to make a longer pause than usual to recover herself. 
But in vain ; the tender nerve was touched ; there was no stilling 
its quivering. 

“ Ellen” — said Mr. Humphreys then after a few minutes. She 
rose and went to the sofa. He folded her close to his breast. 

“ Thank you, my child,” he said presently ; — “you have been a 
comfort to me. Nothing but a choir of angels could have been 
sweeter.” 

As Ellen went away back through the hall her tears almost 
choked her ; but for all that there was a strong throb of pleasure 
at her heart. 

“ I have been a comfort to him,” she repeated. “Oh, dear 
Alice ! — so I will.” 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

A child no more ! — a maiden now — 

A graceful maiden with a gentle brow ; 

A cheek tinged lightly, and a dove-like eye. 

And all hearts bless her as she passes by. 

Mary Howitt. 

The whole Marshman family returned to Yentnor immediately 
after the funeral, Mr. George excepted; he stayed with Mr. 
Humphreys over the Sabbath, and preached for him ; and much to 
everyone’s pleasure lingered still a day or two longer; then he 
was obliged to leave them. John also must go back to Doncaster 
for a few weeks ; he would not be able to get home again before 
the early part of August. For the month between and as much 
longer indeed as possible, Mrs. Marshman wished to have Ellen at 
Yentnor; assuring her that it was to be her home always when- 
ever she chose to make it so. At first neither Mrs. Marshman nor 
her daughters would take any denial ; and old Mr. Marshman was 
fixed upon it. But Ellen begged with tears that she might stay at 
home and begin at once, as far as she could, to take Alice’s place. 
Her kind friends insisted that it would do her harm to be left alone 
for so long, at such a season. Mr. Humphreys at the best of times 
kept very much to himself, and now he would more than ever ; 
she would be very lonely. “ But how lonely he will be if I go 
away !” said Ellen ; — “ I can’t go.” Finding that her heart was 
set upon it, and that it would be a real grief to her to go to Yent- 
nor, John at last joined to excuse her; and he made an arrange- 
ment with Mrs. Yawse instead that she should come and stay with 


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Ellen at the parsonage till he came hack. This gave Ellen great 
satisfaction ; and her kind Ventnor friends were obliged unwillingly 
to leave her. 

The first few days after John’s departure were indeed sad days 
— very sad to every one ; it could not be otherwise. Ellen drooped 
miserably. She had, however, the best possible companion in her 
old Swiss friend. Her good sense, her steady cheerfulness, her 
firm principle were always awake for Ellen’s good, ever ready to 
comfort her, to cheer her, to prevent her from giving undue way 
to sorrow, to urge her to useful exertion. Affection and gratitude, 
to the living and the dead, gave powerful aid to these efforts. 
Ellen rose up in the morning and lay down at night with the pres- 
ent pressing wish to do and be for the ease and comfort of her 
adopted father and brother all that it was possible for her. Very 
soon, so soon as she could rouse herself to any thing, she began to 
turn over in her mind all manner of ways and means for this end. 
And in general, whatever Alice would have wished, what John did 
wish, was law to her. 

“Margery,” said Ellen one day, “I wish you would tell me all 
the things Alice used to do ; so that I may begin to do them, you 
know, as soon as I can.” 

“ What things, Miss Ellen?” 

“ I mean, the things she used to do about the house, or to help 
you, — don’t you know? — all sorts of things. I want to know 
them all, so that I may do them as she did. I want to very 
much.” 

“ Oh, Miss Ellen, dear,” said Margery, tearfully, “ you are too 
little and tender to do them things ; — I’d be sorry to see you, 
indeed !” 

“Why no, I am not, Margery,” said Ellen ; “don’t you know 
how I used to do at aunt Fortune’s? Now tell me — please, dear 
Margery ! If I can’t do it, I won’t you know.” 

“ Oh, Miss Ellen, she used to see to various things about the 
house; — I don’t know as I can tell ’em all directly; some was to 
help me ; and some to please her father or Mr. John, if he was at 
home ; she thought of every one before herself, sure enough.” 

“ Well what; Margery ? what are they ? Tell me all you can 
remember.” 

“Why, Miss Ellen, — for one thing, — she used to go into the 
library every morning, to put it in order, and dust the books and 
papers and things ; in fact she took the charge of that room en- 
tirely ; I never went into it at all, unless once or twice in the year, 
or to wash the windows.” 

Ellen looked grave ; she thought with herself there might be a 
difficulty in the way of her taking this part of Alice’s daily duties ; 
she did not feel that she had the freedom of the library. 


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“And then,” said Margery, “she used to skim the cream for | 
me, most mornings, when I’d be busy ; and wash up the breakfast 
things, — ” 

“ Oh, I forgot all about the breakfast things !” exclaimed Ellen, , 
— “how could I! I’ll do them to be sure, after this. I never 
thought of them, Margery. And I’ll skim the cream too.” 

“ Dear Miss Ellen, I wouldn’t want you to ; I didn’t mention it 
for that, but you was wishing me to tell you — I don’t want you to 
trouble your dear little head about such work. It was more the 
thoughtfulness that cared about me than the help of all she could 
do, though that wasn’t a little ; — I’ll get along well enough ! — ” 

“ But I should like to, — it would make me happier ; and don’t 
you think I want to help you too, Margery ?” 

“ The Lord bless you, Miss Ellen,” said Margery, in a sort of 
desperation, setting down one iron and taking up another, “ don’t 
talk in that way, or you’ll upset me entirely. — I ain’t a bit better 
than a child,” said she, her tears falling fast on the sheet she was 
hurriedly ironing. 

“ What else, dear Margery?” said Ellen presently. “Tell me 
what else?” 

“Well, Miss Ellen,” said Margery, dashing away the water 
from either eye, — “ she used to look over the clothes when they 
went up from the wash ; and put them away ; and ’ mend them if 
there was any places wanted mending.” 

“ I am afraid I don’t know how to manage that,” said Ellen 
very gravely. — “ There is one thing I can do, — I can darn stock- 
ings very nicely ; but that’s only one kind of mending. I don’t 
know much about the other kinds.” 

“ Ah, well, but she did, however,” said Margery, searching in 
her basket of clothes for some particular pieces. “ A beautiful 
mender she was to be sure ! Look here, Miss Ellen, — just see that 
patch — the way it is put on — so evenly by a thread all round ; and 
the stitches, see — and see the way this rent is darned down ; — oh, 
that was the way she did every thing !” 

“ I can’t do it so,” said Ellen sighing, — “ but I can learn ; — that 
I can do. You will teach me, Margery, won’t you?” 

“Indeed, Miss Ellen, dear, it’s more than I can myself; but I 
will tell you who will ; and that’s Mrs. Yawse. I am thinking it 
was her she learned of in the first place, — but I ain’t certain. Any 
how she’s a first-rate hand.” 

“Then I’ll get her to teach me,” said Ellen; — “ that will do 
very nicely. And now, Margery, what else?” 

“Oh, dear, Miss Ellen, — I don’t know, — there was a thousand 
little things that I’d only recollect at the minute; she’d set the 
table for me when my hands was uncommon full ; and often she’d 
come out and make some little thing for the master when I 


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wouldn’t have the time to do the same myself ; — and I can’t tell — 
one can’t think of those things but just at the minute. Dear Miss 
Ellen, I’d be sorry indeed to see you a trying your little hands to 
do all that she done.” 

“Never mind, Margery,” said Ellen, and she threw her arms 
round the kind old woman as she spoke, — “ I won’t trouble you — 
and you won’t be troubled if I am awkward about any thing at 
first, will you ?” 

Margery could only throw down her holder to return most affec- 
tionately as well as respectfully Ellen’s caress and press a very 
hearty kiss upon her forehead. 

Ellen next went to Mrs. Yawse to beg her help in the mending 
and patching line. Her old friend was very glad to see her take 
up any thing with interest, and readily agreed to do her best in the 
matter. So some old clothes were looked up ; pieces of linen, cot- 
ton, and flannel gathered together ; a large basket found to hold all 
these rags of shape and no shape ; and for the next week or two 
Ellen was indefatigable. She would sit making vain endeavours to 
arrange a large linen patch properly, till her cheeks were burning 
with excitement ; and bend over a darn, doing her best to make in- 
visible stitches, till Mrs. Yawse was obliged to assure her it was 
quite unnecessary to take so much pains. Taking pains, however, 
is the sure way to success. Ellen could not rest satisfied till she 
had equalled Alice’s patching and darning ; and though when Mrs. 
Yawse left her she had not quite reached that point, she was bid- 
ding fair to do so in a little while. 

In other things she was more at home. She could skim milk 
well enough, and immediately began to do it for Margery. She at 
once also took upon herself the care of the parlour cupboard and 
all the things in it, which she well knew had been Alice’s office; 
and thanks to Miss Fortune’s training, even Margery was quite sat- 
isfied with her neat and orderly manner of doing it. Ellen begged 
her when the clothes came up from the wash, to show her where 
every thing went, so that for the future she might be able to put 
them away ; and she studied the shelves of the linen closet, and 
the chests of drawers in Mr. Humphreys’ room, till she almost 
knew them by heart. As to the library, she dared not venture. 
She saw Mr. Humphreys at meals and at prayers, — only then. He 
had never asked her to come into his study since the night she 
sang to him, and as for her asking — nothing could have been more 
impossible. Even when he was out of the house, out by the hour, 
Ellen never thought of going where she had not been expressly 
permitted to go. 

When Mr. Yan Brunt informed his wife of Ellen’s purpose to 
desert her service and make her future home at the parsonage, the 
lady’s astonishment was only less than her indignation ; the latter 
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not at all lessened by learning that Ellen was to become the adopted 
child of the house. For a while her words of displeasure were 
poured forth in a torrent; Mr. Van Brunt meantime saying very 
little, and standing by like a steadfast rock that the waves dash 
past , not upon. She declared this was “ the cap-sheaf of Miss 
Humphreys’ doing ; she might have been wise enough to have ex- 
pected as much ; she wouldn’t have been such a fool if she had ! 
This was what she had let Ellen go there for ! a pretty return !” But 
she went on. “ She wondered who they thought they had to deal 
with ; did they think she was going to let Ellen go in that way ? 
she had the first and only right to her ; and Ellen had no more 
business to go and give herself away than one of her oxen ; they 
would find it out, she guessed, pretty quick ; Mr. John and all ; 
she’d have her back in no time !” What were her thoughts and 
feelings, when after having spent her breath she found her husband 
quietly opposed to this conclusion, words cannot tell. Her words 
could not ; she was absolutely dumb, till he had said his say ; and 
then, appalled by the serenity of his manner she left indignation 
on one side for the present and began to argue the matter. But 
Mr. Van Brunt coolly said he had promised ; she might get as many 
help as she liked, he would pay for them and welcome ; but Ellen 
would have to stay where she was. He had promised Miss Alice ; 
and he wouldn’t break his word “for kings, lords, and commons.” 
A most extraordinary expletive for a good republican, — which Mr. 
Van Brunt had probably inherited from his father and grandfather. 
What can waves do against a rock ? The whilom e Miss Fortune 
disdained a struggle which must end in her own confusion, and 
wisely kept her chagrin to herself, never even approaching the sub- 
ject afterwards, with him or any other person. Ellen had left the 
whole matter to Mr. Van Brunt, expecting a storm and not wishing 
to share it. Happily it all blew over. 

As the month drew to an end, and indeed long before, Ellen’s 
thoughts began to go forward eagerly to John coming home. She 
had learned by this time how to mend clothes ; she had grown 
somewhat wonted to her new round of little household duties ; in 
every thing else the want of him was felt. Study flagged ; though 
knowing what his wish would be, and what her duty was, she faith- 
fully tried to go on with it. She had no heart for riding or walking 
by herself. She was lonely ; she was sorrowful ; she was weary ; all 
Mrs. Vawse’s pleasant society was not worth the mere knowledge 
that he was in the house ; she longed for his coming. 

He had written what day they might expect him. But when it 
came, Ellen found that her feeling had changed ; it did not look 
the bright day she had expected it would. Up to that time she 
had thought only of herself ; now she remembered what sort of a 
coming home this must be to him ; and she dreaded almost as much 


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as she wished for the moment of his arrival. Mrs. Yawse was 
surprised to see that her face was sadder that day than it had been 
for many past ; she could not understand it. Ellen did not explain. 
It was late in the day before he reached home, and her anxious 
watch of hope and fear for the sound of his horse’s feet grew very 
painful. She busied herself with setting the tea-table ; it was all 
done ; and she could by no means do any thing else. She could 
not go to the door to listen there ; she remembered too well the 
last time ; and she knew he would remember it. 

He came at last. Ellen’s feeling had judged rightly of his, for 
the greeting was without a word on either side ; and when he left 
the room to go to his father, it was very, very long before he came 
back. And it seemed to Ellen for several days that he was more 
grave and talked less than even the last time he had been at home. 
She was sorry when Mrs. Yawse proposed to leave them. But the 
old lady wisely said they would all feel better when she was gone ; 
and it was so. Truly as she was respected and esteemed, on all 
sides, it was felt a relief by every one of the family when she 
went back to her mountain-top. They were left to themselves ; 
they saw what their numbers were ; there was no restraint upon 
looks, words, or silence. Ellen saw at once that the gentlemen 
felt easier, that was enough to make her so. The extreme oppres- 
sion that had grieved and disappointed her the first few days after 
John’s return, gave place to a softened gravity ; and the household 
fell again into all its old ways ; only that upon every brow there 
was a chastened air of sorrow, in everything that was said a tone 
of remembrance, and that a little figure was going about where 
Alice’s used to move as mistress of the house. 

Thanks to her brother, that little figure was an exceeding busy 
one. She had in the first place, her household duties, in discharging 
which she was perfectly untiring. From the cream skimmed for 
Margery, and the cups of coffee poured out every morning for Mr. 
Humphreys and her brother, to the famous mending which took 
up often one half of Saturday, whatever she did was done with 
her best diligence and care ; and from love to both the dead and 
the living, Ellen’s zeal never slackened. These things however 
filled but a small part of her time, let her be as particular as she 
would ; and Mr. John effectually hindered her from being too par- 
ticular. He soon found a plenty for both her and himself to do. 

Not that they ever forgot or tried to forget Alice ; on the con- 
trary. They sought to remember her, humbly, calmly, hopefully, 
thankfully ! By diligent performance of duty, by Christian faith, 
by conversation and prayer, they strove to do this ; and after a 
time succeeded. Sober that winter was, but it was very far from 
being an unhappy one. 

“ John,” said Ellen one day, some time after Mrs. Yawse had 


460 


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left them, — “ do you think Mr. Humphreys would let me go into 
his study every day when he is out, to put it in order and dust the ; 


books?” 

“ Certainly. But why does not Margery do it?” 

“ She does, I believe, but she never used to ; and I should like 
to do it very much if I was sure he would not dislike it. I would 
be careful not to disturb any thing ; I would leave every thing just 
as I found it.” 

“You may go when you please, and do what you please there, 
Ellie.” 

“ But I don’t like to — I couldn’t without speaking to him first ; 
I should be afraid he would come back and find me there, and he 
might think I hadn’t had leave.” 

“And you wish me to speak to him, — is that it? Cannot you 
muster resolution enough for that, Ellie?” 

Ellen was satisfied, for she knew by his tone he would do what 
she wanted.' 

“ Father,” said John, the next morning at breakfast ; — “ Ellen 
wishes to take upon herself the daily care of your study, but she 
is afraid to venture without being assured it will please you to see 
her there.” 

The old gentleman laid his hand affectionately on Ellen’s head, 
and told her she was welcome to come and go when she would ; — 
the whole house was hers. 

The grave kindness and tenderness of the tone and action 
spoiled Ellen’s breakfast. She could not look at any body nor 
hold up her head for the rest of the time. 

As Alice had anticipated, her brother was called to take the 
charge of a church at Bandolpli, and at the same time another 
more distant was offered him. He refused them both, rightly 
judging that his place for the present was at home. But the call 
from Bandolph being pressed upon him very much, he at length 
agreed to preach for them during the winter ; riding thither for 
the purpose every Saturday, and returning to Carra-carra on 
Monday. 

As the winter wore one, a grave cheerfulness stole over the 
household. Ellen little thought how much she had to do with it. 
She never heard Margery tell her husband, which she often did 
with great affection, “ that that blessed child was the light of the 
house.” And those who felt it the most said nothing. Ellen was 
sure, indeed, from the way in which Mr. Humphreys spoke to her, 
looked at her, now and then laid his hand on her head, and some- 
times, very rarely, kissed her forehead, that he loved her and loved 
to see her about ; and that her wish of supplying Alice’s place was 
in some little measure fulfilled. Few as those words and looks 
were, they said more to Ellen than whole discourses would from 






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461 


other people ; the least of them gladdened her heart with the feel- 
ing that she was a comfort to him. But she never knew how 
much. Deep as the gloom still over him was, Ellen never dreamed 
how much deeper it would have been, but for the little figure 
flitting round and filling up the vacancy ; how much he reposed on 
the gentle look of affection, the pleasant voice, the watchful 
thoughtfulness that never left any thing undone that she could do 
| for his pleasure. Perhaps he did not know it himself. She was 
( not sure he even noticed many of the little things she daily did or 
tried to do for him. Always silent and reserved, he was more so 
now than ever ; she saw him little, and very seldom long at a time, 
unless when they were riding to church together ; he was always 
in his study or abroad. But the trifles she thought he did not see 
were noted and registered, and repaid with all the affection he had 
to give. 

As for Mr. John, it never came into Ellen’s head to think 
whether she was a comfort to him ; he was a comfort to her ; she 
looked at it in quite another point of view. He had gone to his 
old sleeping-room up stairs, which Margery had settled with her- 
self he would make his study ; and for that he had taken the 
sitting-room. This was Ellen’s study too, so she was constantly 
with him ; and of the quietest she thought her movements would 
have to be. 

“ What are you stepping so softly for?” said he, one day, catch- 
ing her hand as she was passing near him. 

“ You were busy — I thought you were busy,” said Ellen. 

u And what then ?” 

“ I was afraid of disturbing you.” 

“ You never disturb me,” said he; — “ you need not fear it. 
Step as you please, and do not shut the doors carefully. I see you 
and hear you; but without any disturbance.” 

Ellen found it was so. But she was an exception to the general 
rule ; other people disturbed him, as she had one or two occasions 
of knowing. 

Of one thing she was perfectly sure, whatever he might be 
doing, — that he saw and heard her ; and equally sure that if any 
thing were not right she should sooner or later hear of it. But 
this was a censorship Ellen rather loved than feared. In the first 
place, she was never misunderstood ; in the second, however 
ironical and severe he might be to others, and Ellen knew he could 
be both when there was occasion, he never was either to her. 
With great plainness always, but with an equally happy choice of 
time and manner, he either said or looked what he wished her to 
understand. This happened indeed only about comparative trifles ; 
to have seriously displeased him, Ellen would have thought the 
last great evil that could fall upon her in this world. 

39 * 


462 THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 

One day Margery came into the room with a paper in her 
hand. 

“ Miss Ellen,” said she in a low tone, — “here is Anthony Fox 
again — he has brought another of his curious letters that he wants 
to know if Miss Ellen will be so good as to write out for him once 
more. He says he is ashamed to trouble you so much.” 

Ellen was reading, comfortably ensconced in the corner of the 
wide sofa. She gave a glance, a most ungratified one, at the very 
original document in Margery’s hand. Unpromising it certainly 
looked. 

“ Another ! Dear me ! — I wonder if there isn’t somebody else 
he could get to do it for him, Margery ? I think I have had my 
share. You don’t know what a piece of work it is, to copy out ■ 
one of those scrawls. It takes me ever so long in the first place \ 
to find what he has written, and then to put it so that any one j 
else can make sense of it — I’ve got about enough of it. Don’t 
you suppose he could find plenty of other people to do it for 
him ?” 

“ I don’t know, Miss Ellen, — I suppose he could.” 

“ Then ask him, do ; won’t you, Margery? I’m so tired of it! 
and this is the third one ; and I’ve got something else to do. Ask 
him if there isn’t somebody else he can get to do it ; — if there 
isn’t, I will ; — tell him I am busy.” 

Margery withdrew and Ellen buried herself again in her book. 
Anthony Fox was a poor Irishman, whose uncouth attempts at a 
letter Ellen had once offered to write out and make straight for 
him, upon hearing Margery tell of his lamenting that he could not 
make one fit to send home to his mother. 

Presently Margery came in again, stopping this time at the table I 
which Mr. John had pushed to the far side of the room to get \ 
away from the fire. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,” she said, — “I am ashamed to be so ; 
troublesome, — but this Irish body, this Anthony Fox, has begged 
me, and I didn’t know how to refuse him, to come in and ask for 
a sheet of paper and a pen for him, sir, — he wants to copy a letter, 
— if Mr. John would be so good ; a quill pen, sir, if you please ; 
he cannot write with any other.” 

“ No,” said John coolly. “ Ellen will do it.” 

Margery looked in some doubt from the table to the sofa, but 
Ellen instantly rose up and with a burning cheek came forward 
and took the paper from the hand where Margery still held it. 

u Ask him to wait a little while, Margery,” she said hurriedly, 

— “ I’ll do it as soon as I can, — tell him in half an hour.” 

It was not a very easy nor quick job. Ellen worked at it pa- 
tiently, and finished it well by the end of the half hour ; though 
with a burning cheek still ; and a dimness over her eyes frequently 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD . 463 

obliged her to stop till she could clear them. It was done, and she 
carried it out to the kitchen herself. 

The poor man’ s thanks were very warm ; but that was not what 
Ellen wanted. She could not rest till she had got another word 
from her brother. He was busy ; she dared not speak to him ; she 
sat fidgeting and uneasy in the corner of the sofa till it was time 
to get ready for riding. She had plenty of time to make up her 
mind about the right and the wrong of her own conduct. 

During the ride he was just as usual, and she began to think he 
did not mean to say any thing more on the matter. Pleasant talk 
and pleasant exercise had almost driven it out of her head, when 
as they were walking their horses over a level place, he suddenly 
began, 

“ By the by, you are too busy, Ellie,” said he. “Which of 
your studies shall we cut off?” 

“ Please , Mr. John,” said Ellen blushing, — “ don’t say any thing 
about that! I was not studying at all — I was just amusing my- 
self with a book — I was only selfish and lazy.” 

“ Only — I would rather you were too busy, Ellie.” 

Ellen’s eyes filled. 

“ I was wrong,” she said, — “ I knew it at the time, — at least as 
soon as you spoke I knew it ; and a little before ; — I was very 
wrong !” 

And his keen eye saw that the confession was not out of com- 
pliment to him merely ; it came from the heart. 

“You are right now,” he said smiling. “ But how are your 
reins ?” 

Ellen’s heart was at rest again. 

“Oh, I forgot them,” said she gayly, — “I was thinking of 
something else.” 

“You must not talk when you are riding, unless you can con- 
trive to manage two things at once ; and no more lose command 
of your horse than you would of yourself.” 

Ellen’s eye met his with all the contrition, affection, and in- 
genuousness that even he wished to see there ; and they put their 
horses to the canter. 

This winter was in many ways a very precious one to Ellen. 
French gave her now no trouble ; she was a clever arithmetician ; 
she knew geography admirably, and was tolerably at home in both 
English and American history ; the way was cleared for the course 
of improvement in which her brother’s hand led and helped her. 
He put her into Latin ; carried on the study of natural philosophy 
they had begun the year before, and which with his instructions 
was perfectly delightful to Ellen ; he gave her some works of 
stronger reading than she had yet tried, besides histories in French 
and English, and higher branches of arithmetic. These things 


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were not crowded together so as to fatigue, nor hurried through so 
as to overload. Carefully and thoroughly she was obliged to put 
her mind through every subject they entered upon ; and just at 
that age, opening as her understanding was, it grappled eagerly 
with all that he gave her, as well from love to learning as from 
love to him. In reading too, she began to take new and strong 
delight. Especially two or three new English periodicals, which 
John sent for on purpose for her, were mines of pleasure to Ellen. 
There was no fiction in them either ; they were as full of instruc- 
tion as of interest. At all times of the day and night, in her in- 
tervals of business, Ellen might be seen with one of these in her 
hand ; nestled among the cushions of the sofa, or on a little bench 
by the side of the fireplace in the twilight, where she could have 
the benefit of the blaze, which she loved to read by as well as ever. 
Sorrowful remembrances were then flown, all things present were 
out of view, and Ellen’s face was dreamingly happy. 

It was well there was always somebody by, who whatever he 
might himself be doing, never lost sight of her. If ever Ellen 
was in danger of bending too long over her studies or indulging 
herself too much in the sofa-corner, she was sure to be broken off 
to take an hour or two of smart exercise, riding or walking, or to 
recite some lesson (and their recitations were very lively things), 
or to read aloud, or to talk. Sometimes if he saw that she seemed 
to be drooping or a little sad, he would come and sit down by her 
side or call her to his, find out what she was thinking about ; and 
then, instead of slurring it over, talk of it fairly and set it before 
her in such a light that it was impossible to think of it again 
gloomily, for that day at least. Sometimes he took other ways ; 
but never when he was present allowed her long to look weary or 
sorrowful. He often read to her, and every day made her read 
aloud to him. This Ellen disliked very much at first, and ended 
with as much liking it. She had an admirable teacher. He 
taught her how to manage her voice and how to manage the 
language ; in both which he excelled himself, and was determined 
that she should ; and besides this their reading often led to talking 
that Ellen delighted in. Always when he was making copies for 
her she read to him, and once at any rate in the course of the 
day. 

Every day when the weather would permit, the Black Prince 
and the Brownie with their respective riders might be seen abroad 
in the country far and wide. In the course of their rides Ellen’s 
horsemanship was diligently perfected. Very often their turning- 
place was on the top of the Cat’s back, and the horses had a rest 
and Mrs. Yawse a visit before they went down again. They had 
long walks too, by hill and dale ; pleasantly silent or pleasantly 
talkative, — all pleasant to Ellen ! 


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465 


Her only lonely or sorrowful time was when John was gone to 
Randolph. It began early Saturday morning, and perhaps ended 
with Sunday night; for all Monday was hope and expectation. 
Even Saturday she had not much time to mope ; that was the day 
for her great week’s mending. When John was gone and her 
morning affairs were out of the way, Ellen brought out her work- 
basket, and established herself on the sofa for a quiet day’s sewing 
without the least fear of interruption. But sewing did not always 
hinder thinking. And then certainly the room did seem very 
empty and very still ; and the clock, which she never heard the rest 
of the week, kept ticking an ungracious reminder that she was 
alone. Ellen would sometimes forget it in the intense interest 
of some nice little piece of repair which must be exquisitely done 
in a wristband or a glove ; and then perhaps Margery would softly 
open the door and come in. 

“ Miss Ellen, dear, you’re lonesome enough ; isn’t tljere some- 
thing I can do for you ? I can’t rest for thinking of your being 
here all by yourself.” 

“ Oh, never mind, Margery,” said Ellen smiling, — “ I am doing 
very well. I am living in hopes of Monday. Come and look here, 
Margery, — how will that do? — don’t you think I am learning to 
mend ?” 

“It’s beautiful, Miss Ellen! I can’t make out how you’ve 
learned so quick. I’ll tell Mr. John some time who does these 
things for him.” 

“ No, indeed, Margery ! don’t you. Please not, Margery. I like 
to do it very much indeed, but I don’t want he should know it, nor 
Mr. Humphreys. Now you won’t, Margery, will you?” 

“ Miss Ellen, dear, I wouldn’t do the least little thing as would 
be worrisome to you for the whole world. Aren’t you tired sitting 
here all alone?” 

“Oh, sometimes, a little,” said Ellen sighing. “I can’t help 
that, you know.” 

“I feel it even out there in the kitchen,” said Margery ; — “I 
feel it lonesome hearing the house so still ; I miss the want of Mr. 
John’s step up and down the room. How fond he is of walking so, 
to be sure ! How do you manage, Miss Ellen, with him making 
his study here? don’t you have to keep uncommon quiet?” 

“ No,” said Ellen, — “ no quieter than I like. I do just as I have 
a mind to.” 

“I thought, to be sure,” said Margery, “he would have taken 
up stairs for his study, or the next room, one or t’other; he used 
to be mighty particular in old times; he didn’t like to have any 
body round when he was busy ; but I am glad he is altered how- 
ever ; it is better for you, Miss Ellen, dear, though I didn’t know 
how you was ever going to make out at first.” 
ee 


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Ellen thought for a minute, when Margery was gone, whether it 
could be that John was putting a force upon his liking for her sake, 
bearing her presence when he would rather have been without it. 
But she thought of it only a minute ; she was sure, when she recol- 
lected herself, that however it happened, she was no hinderance to 
him in any kind of work ; that she went out and came in, and as 
he had said, he saw and heard her without any disturbance. Be- 
sides he had said so ; and that was enough. 

Saturday evening she generally contrived to busy herself in her 
books. But when Sunday morning came with its calmness and 
brightness ; when the business of the week was put away, and 
quietness abroad and at home invited to recollection, then Ellen’s 
thoughts went hack to old times, and then she missed the calm sweet 
face that had agreed so well with the day. She missed her in the 
morning, when the early sun streamed in through the empty room. 
She missed her at the breakfast-table, where John was not to take 
her place. On the ride to church, where Mr. Humphreys was now 
her silent companion, and every tree in the road and every opening 
in the landscape seemed to call for Alice to see it with her. Very 
much she missed her in church. The empty seat beside her, — the 
unused hymn-book on the shelf, — the want of her sweet voice in 
the singing, — oh, how it went to Ellen’s heart. And Mr. Hum- 
phreys’ grave steadfast look and tone kept it in her mind ; she saw 
it was in his. Those Sunday mornings tried Ellen. At first they 
were bitterly sad ; her tears used to flow abundantly whenever they 
could unseen. Time softened this feeling. 

While Mr. Humphreys went on to his second service in the vil- 
lage beyond, Ellen stayed at Carra-carra and tried to teach a Sun- 
day school. She determined as far as she could to supply beyond 
the home circle the loss that was not felt only there. She was able 
however to gather together hut her own four children whom she 
had constantly taught from the beginning, and two others. The 
rest were scattered. After her lunch, which having no companion 
but Margery was now a short one, Ellen went next to the two old 
women that Alice had been accustomed to attend for the purpose 
of reading, and what Ellen called preaching. These poor old peo- 
ple had sadly lamented the loss of the faithful friend whose place 
they never expected to see supplied in this world, and whose kind- 
ness had constantly sweetened their lives with one great pleasure a 
week. Ellen felt afraid to take so much upon herself, as to try 
to do for them what Alice had done ; however she resolved ; and 
at the very first attempt their gratitude and joy far overpaid her 
for the effort she had made. Practice and the motive she had, soon 
enabled Ellen to remember and repeat faithfully the greater part 
of Mr. Humphreys’ morning sermon. Reading the Bible to Mrs. 
Blockson was easy ; she had often done that ; and to repair the loss 



THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 467 

of Alice’s pleasant comments and explanations she bethought her 
of her Pilgrim’s Progress. To her delight the old woman heard 
it greedily, and seemed to take great comfort in it ; often referring 
to what Ellen had read before and begging to hear such a piece 
over again. Ellen generally went home pretty thoroughly tired, 
yet feeling happy ; the pleasure of doing good still far overbalanced 
the pains. 

Sunday evening was another lonely time ; Ellen spent it as best 
she could. Sometimes with her Bible and prayer, and then she 


ceased to be lonely ; sometimes with so many pleasant thoughts 
that had sprung up out of the employments of the morning that 
she could not be sorrowful ; sometimes she could not help being 
both. In any case, she was very apt when the darkness fell to 
take to singing hymns ; and it grew to be a habit with Mr. Hum- 
phreys when he heard her to come out of his study and lie down 
upon the sofa and listen, suffering no light in the room but that of 
the fire. Ellen never was better pleased than when her Sunday 


468 


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evenings were spent so. She sung with wonderful pleasure when 
she sung for him ; and she made it her business to fill her memory 
with all the beautiful hymns she ever knew or could find, or that 
he liked particularly. 

With the first opening of her eyes on Monday morning came 
the thought, “ John will be at home to-day !” That was enough 
to carry Ellen pleasantly through whatever the day might bring. 
She generally kept her mending of stockings for Monday morning, 
because with that thought in her head she did not mind any thing. 
She had no visits from Margery on Monday ; but Ellen sang over 
her work, sprang about with happy energy, and studied her hardest ; 
for John in what he expected her to do made no calculations for 
work of which he knew nothing. He was never at home till late 
in the day ; and when Ellen had done all she had to do, and set the 
supper-table with punctilious care, and a face of busy happiness it 
would have been a pleasure to see if there had been any one to 
look at it, she would take what happened to be the favourite book 
and plant herself near the glass door ; like a very epicure, to enjoy 
both the present and the future at once. Even then the present 
often made her forget the future ; she would be lost in her book, 
perhaps hunting the elephant in India or fighting Nelson’s battles 
over again, and the first news she would have of what she had set 
herself there to watch for would be the click of the door-lock or a 
tap on the glass, for the horse was almost always left at the further 
door. Back then she came, from India or the Nile ; down went 
the book ; Ellen had no more thought but for what was before her. 

For the rest of that evening the measure of Ellen’s happiness 
was full. It did not matter whether John were in a talkative or a 
thoughtful mood ; whether he spoke to her and looked at her or 
not ; it was pleasure enough to feel that he was there. She was 
perfectly satisfied merely to sit down near him, though she did not 
get a word by the hour together. 


CHAPTER XLY. 

Ne in all the welkin was no cloud. 

Chaucer. 


One Monday evening, John being tired, was resting in the 
corner of the sofa. The silence had lasted a long time. Ellen 
thought so, and standing near, she by and by put her hand gently 
into one of his which he was thoughtfully passing through the 
locks of his hair. Her hand was clasped immediately, and quit- 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 


469 


ting his abstracted look he asked what she had been doing that 
day ? Ellen’s thoughts went back to toes of stockings and a long 
rent in her dress ; she merely answered, smiling, that she had been 
busy. 

“ Too busy, I’m afraid. Come round here and sit down. What 
have you been busy about?” 

Ellen never thought of trying to evade a question of his. She 
coloured and hesitated. He did not press it any further. 

“ Mr. John,” said Ellen, when the silence seemed to have set in 
again, — “ there is something I have been wanting to ask you this 
great while,” — 

“ Why hasn’t it been ashed this great while ?” 

“ 1 didn’t quite like to ; — I didn’t know what you would say to it.” 

“I am sorry I am at all terrible to you, Ellie.” 

“ Why you are not!” said Ellen, laughing, — “ how you talk! 
but I don’t much like to ask people things.” 

“I don’t know about that,” said he smiling; — “my memory 
rather seems to say that you ask things pretty often.” 

“Ah, yes, — those things, — but I mean — I don’t like to ask 
things when I am not quite sure how people will like it.” 

“ You are right, certainly, to hesitate when you are doubtful in 
such a matter ; but it is best not to be doubtful when I am con- 
cerned.” 

“Well,” said Ellen, — “I wished very much — I was going to 
ask — if you would have any objection to let me read one of your 
sermons.” 

“None in the world, Ellie,” said he, smiling, — “but they have 
never been written yet.” 

“ Not written !” 

“ No — there is all I had to guide me yesterday.” 

“A half sheet of paper! — and only written on one side! — Oh, 
I can make nothing of this. What is this ? — Hebrew ?’ ’ 

“ Shorthand.” 

“ And is that all ! I cannot understand it,” said Ellen, sighing 
as she gave back the paper. 

“ What if you were to go with me next time ? They want to 
see you very much at Ventnor.” 

“ So do I want to see them,” said Ellen ; — “ very much indeed.” 

“ Mrs. Marshman sent a most earnest request by me that you 
would come to her the next time I go to Randolph.” 

Ellen gave the matter a very serious consideration ; if one might 
judge by her face. 

“ What do you say to it?” 

“ I should like to go — very much,” said Ellen, slowly, — 
“but ” 

“ But you do not think it would be pleasant ?” 


470 


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“No, no,” said Ellen laughing, — “I don’t mean that; but I 
think I would rather not.” 

“ Why?” 

“ Oh, — I have some reasons.” 

“ You must give me very good ones, or I think I shall overrule 
your decision, Ellie.” 

“ I have very good ones, — plenty of them, — only ” 

A glance, somewhat comical in its keenness, overturned Ellen’s 
hesitation. 

“ I have indeed,” said she, laughing, — “ only I did not want to 
tell you. The reason w T hy I didn’t wish to go was because I 
thought I should be missed. You don’t know how much I miss 
you,” said she with tears in her eyes. 

“That is what I was afraid of ! Your reasons make against 
you, Ellie.” 

“ I hope not; — I don’t think they ought.” 

“But Ellie, I am very sure my father would rather miss you 
once or twice than have you want what would be good for you.” 

“ I know that ! I am sure of that ; but that don’t alter my feel- 
ing, you know. And besides — that isn’t all.” 

“ Who else will miss you ?” 

Ellen’s quick look seemed to say that he knew too much already, 
and that she did not wish him to know more. He did not repeat 
the question, but Ellen felt that her secret was no longer entirely 
her own. 

“ And what do you do, Ellie, when you feel lonely?” he went 
on presently. 

Ellen’s eyes watered at the tone in which these words were 
spoken; she answered, “ Different things.” 

“ The best remedy for it is prayer. In seeking the face of our 
best friend we forget the loss of others. That is what I try, 
Ellie, when I feel alone ; — do you try it?” said he, softly. 

Ellen looked up ; she could not well speak at that moment. 

“ There is an antidote in that for every trouble. You know who 
said, ‘ he that cometh to me shall never hunger, and he that be- 
lieveth on me shall never thirst.’ ” 

“ It troubles me,” said he after a pause, — “ to leave you so much 
alone. I don’t know that it were not best to take you with me 
every week.” 

“ Oh, no !” said Ellen, — “don’t think of me. I don’t mind it 
indeed. I do not always feel so — sometimes, — but I get along 
very well ; and I would rather stay here, indeed I would. I am 
always happy as soon as Monday morning comes.” 

He rose up suddenly and began to walk up and down the room. 

“ Mr. John” — 

« What, Ellie ?” 


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471 


“ I do sometimes seek His face very much when I cannot find it.” 

She hid her face in the sofa-cushion. He was silent a few min- 
utes, and then stopped his walk. 

“There is something wrong then with you, Ellie,” he said 
gently. “ How has it been through the week ? If you can let 
day after day pass without remembering your best friend, it may 
be that when you feel the want you will not readily find him. 
How is it daily, Ellie ? is seeking his face your first concern ? do 
you give a sufficient time faithfully to your Bible and prayer?” 

Ellen shook her head ; no words were possible. He took up his 
walk again. The silence had lasted a length of time and he was 
still walking, when Ellen came to his side and laid her hand on 
his arm. 

“ Have you settled that question with your conscience, Ellie ?” 

She weepingly answered yes. They walked a few turns up and 
down. 

“ Will you promise me, Ellie, that every day when it shall be 
possible, you will give an hour at least to this business ? — whatever 
else may be done or undone ?” 

Ellen promised ; and then with her hand in his they continued 
their walk through the room till Mr. Humphreys and the servants 
came in. Her brother’s prayer that night Ellen never forgot. 

No more was said at that time about her going to Ventnor. 
But a week or two after, John smilingly told her to get all her 
private affairs arranged and to let her friends know they need not 
expect to see her the next Sunday, for that he was going to take 
her with him. As she saw he had made up his mind, Ellen said 
nothing in the way of objecting; and now that the decision was 
taken from her was really very glad to go. She arranged every 
thing, as he had said ; and was ready Saturday morning to set off 
with a very light heart. 

They went in the sleigh. In a happy quiet mood of mind, 
Ellen enjoyed every thing exceedingly. She had not been to 
Ventnor in several months; the change of scene was very grateful. 
She could not help thinking, as they slid along smoothly and 
swiftly over the hard-frozen snow, that it was a good deal pleas- 
anter, for once, than sitting alone in the parlour at home with her 
work-basket. Those days of solitary duty, however, had prepared 
her for the pleasure of this one ; Ellen knew that, and was ready 
to be thankful for every thing. Throughout the whole way, 
whether the eye and mind silently indulged in roving, or still bet- 
ter loved talk interrupted that, as it often did, Ellen was in a state 
of most unmixed and unruffled satisfaction. John had not the 
slightest reason to doubt the correctness of his judgment in bring- 
ing her. He went in but a moment at Ventnor, and leaving her 
there, proceeded himself to Bandolph. 


472 


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Ellen was received as a precious lending that must be taken the 
greatest care of and enjoyed as much as possible while one has it. 
Mrs. Marshman and Mrs. Chauncey treated her as if she had been 
their own child. Ellen Chauncey overwhelmed her with joyful 
caresses, and could scarcely let her out of her arms by night or by 
day. She was more than evar Mr. Marshman’ s pet ; but indeed 
she was well petted by all the family. It was a very happy visit. 

Even Sunday left nothing to wish for. To her great joy not 
only Mrs. Chauncey went with her in the morning to hear her 
brother (for his church was not the one the family attended), but 
the carriage was ordered in the afternoon also ; and Mrs. Chauncey 
and her daughter and Miss Sophia went with her again. When they 
returned, Miss Sophia, who had taken a very great fancy to her, 
brought her into her own room and made her lie down with her 
upon the bed, though Ellen insisted she was not tired. 

“ Well you ought to be, if you are not,” said the lady. “I am. 
Keep away, Ellen Chauncey — you can’t be any where without 
talking. You can live without Ellen for half an hour, can’t ye? 
Leave us a little while in quiet. ’ 

Ellen for her part was quite willing to be quiet. But Miss 
Sophia was not sleepy, and it soon appeared had no intention of 
being silent herself. 

“ Well how do you like your brother in the pulpit ?” she began. 

“I like him anywhere, ma’am,” said Ellen smiling a very un- 
equivocal smile. 

“ I thought he would have come here with you last night ; — it is 
very mean of him ! He never comes near us ; he always goes to 
some wretched little lodging or place in the town there ; — always ; 
never so much as looks at Yentnor unless sometimes he may stop 
for a minute at the door.” 

“ He said he would come here to-night,” said Ellen. 

“ Amazing condescending of him ! However, he isn’t like any- 
body else ; I suppose we must not judge him by common rules. 
How is Mr. Humphreys, Ellen ?” 

“I don’t know, ma’am,” said Ellen, — “it is hard to tell; he 
doesn’t say much. I think he is rather more cheerful — if any 
thing — than I expected he would be.” 

“And how do you get along there, poor child! with only two 
such grave people about you?” 

“I get along very well, ma’am,” said Ellen, with what Miss 
Sophia thought a somewhat curious smile. 

“ I believe you will grow to be as sober as the rest of them,” 
said she. “ How does Mr. John behave?” 

Ellen turned so indubitably curious a look upon her at this that 
Miss Sophia half laughed and went on. 

“ Mr. Humphreys was not always as silent and reserved as he is 


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473 


now ; I remember him when he was different ; — though I don’t 
think he ever was much like his son. Did you ever hear about 
it?” 

“ About what, ma’am ?” 

“ Oh, all about his coming to this country, and what brought 
him to Carra-carra ?” 

“ No, ma’am.” 

“ My father, you see, had come out long before, nut the two 
families had been always very intimate in England, and it was kept 
up after he came away. He was a particular friend of an elder 
brother of Mr. Humphreys; his estate and my grandfather’s lay 
very near each other ; and besides, there were other things that 
drew them to each other; — he married my aunt, for one. My 
father made several journeys back and forth in the course of years, 
and so kept up his attachment to the whole family, you know ; and 
he became very desirous to get Mr. Humphreys over here,— this 
Mr. Humphreys, you know. He was the younger brother — younger 
brothers in England generally have little or nothing ; but you don’t 
know anything about that, Ellen. He hadn’t any thing then but 
his living, and that was a small one ; he had some property left 
him though, just before he came to America.” 

“ But Miss Sophia” — Ellen hesitated, — “ Are you sure they 
would like I should hear all this?” 

“ Why yes, child ! — of course they would ; every body knows it. 
Some things made Mr. Humphreys as willing to leave England 
about that time as my father was to have him. An excellent 
situation was offered him in one of the best institutions here, and 
he came out. That’s about — let me see — I was just twelve years 
old and Alice was one year younger. She and I were just like 
sisters always from that time. We lived near together, and saw 
each other every day, and our two families were just like one. But 
they were liked by every body. Mrs. Humphreys was a very fine 
person, — very ; oh, very ! I never saw any woman I admired more. 
Her death almost killed her husband ; and I think Alice — I don’t 
know ! — there isn’t the least sign of delicate health about Mr. 
Humphreys nor Mr. John, — not the slightest, — nor about Mrs. 
Humphreys either. She was a very fine woman !” 

“ How long ago did she die ?” said Ellen. 

“ Five, — six, seven, — seven years ago. Mr. John had been left 
in England till a little before. Mr. Humphreys was never the 
same after that. He wouldn’t hold his professorship any longer ; 
he couldn’t bear society; he just went and buried himself at 
Carra-carra. That was a little after we came here.” 

How much all this interested Ellen ! She was glad however 
when Miss Sophia seemed to have talked herself out, for she 
wanted very much to think over John’s sermon. And as Miss 

40 * 


474 


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Sophia happily fell into a doze soon after, she had a long quiet 
time for it, till it grew dark, and Ellen Chauncey whose impatience 
could hold no longer came to seek her. 

John came in the evening. Ellen’s patience and politeness were 
severely tried in the course of it ; for while she longed exceed- 
ingly to hear what her brother and the older members of the fam- 
ily were talking about, — animated, delightful conversation she was 
sure, — Ellen Chauncey detained her in another part of the room ; 
and for a good part of the evening she had to bridle her impatience, 
and attend to what she did not care about. She did it, and Ellen 
Chauncey did not suspect it ; and at last she found means to draw 
both her and herself near the larger group. But they seemed to 
have got through what they were talking about ; there was a lull. 
Ellen waited ; and hoped they would begin again. 

“You had a full church this afternoon, Mr. John,” said Miss 
Sophia. 

He bowed gravely. 

“ Did you know whom you had among your auditors ? the 

and were there ;’ ’ naming some distinguished strangers in the 

neighbourhood. 

“I think I saw them.” 

“You ‘ think’ you did ! Is that an excess of pride or an excess 
of modesty? Now do be a reasonable creature, and confess that 
you are not insensible to the pleasure and honour of addressing 
such an audience !” 

Ellen saw something like a flash of contempt, for an instant in 
his face, instantly succeeded by a smile. 

“ Honestly, Miss Sophia, I was much more interested in an old 
woman that sat at the foot of the pulpit stairs.” 

“ That old thing !” said Miss Sophia. 

“I saw her,” said Mrs. Chauncey; — “poor old creature! she 
seemed most deeply attentive when I looked at her.” 

u I saw her !” cried Ellen Chauncey, — “ and the tears were run- 
ning down her cheeks several times.” 

“I didn’t see her,” said Ellen Montgomery, as John’s eye met 
hers. He smiled. 

“ But do you mean to say,” continued Miss Sophia, “that you 
are absolutely careless as to who hears you?” 

“ I have always one hearer, Miss Sophia, of so much dignity, 
that it sinks the rest into great insignificance.” 

“That is a rebuke,” said Miss Sophia; — “but nevertheless I 
shall tell you that I liked you very much this afternoon.” 

He was silent. 

“I suppose you will tell me next,” said the young lady laugh- 
ing, “ that you are sorry to hear me say so.” 

“ I am,” said he gravely. 


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475 


“ Why ? — may I ask ?” 

“ You show me that I have quite failed in my aim, so far at 
least as one of my hearers was concerned.” 

“ How do you know that?” 

“Do you remember what Louis the Fourteenth said to Massil- 
lon? — Mon p&re, j’ai entendu plusieurs grands orateurs dans ma 
chapelle; j’en ai ete fort content; pour vous, toutes les fois que 
je vous ai entendu, j’ai ete tres mecontent de moi-m§me l” 

Ellen smiled. Miss Sophia was silent for an instant. 

“ Then you really mean to be understood, that provided you fail 
of your aim, as you say, you do not care a straw what people 
think of you?” 

“As I would take a bankrupt’s promissory note in lieu of told 
gold. It gives me small gratification, Miss Sophia — very small 
indeed, — to see the bowing head of the grain that yet my sickle 
cannot reach.” 

“ I agree with you most heartily,” said Mr. George Marshman. 
The conversation dropped ; and the two gentlemen began another 
in an under tone, pacing up and down the floor together. 

The next morning, not sorrowfully, Ellen entered the sleigh 
again and they set off homewards. 

“ What a sober little piece that is,” said Mr. Howard. 

“Oh! — sober!” cried Ellen Chauncey; — “ that is because you 
don’t know her, uncle Ploward. She is the cheerfullest, happiest 
girl that I ever saw, — always.” 

“ Except Ellen Chauncey, — always,” said her uncle. 

“ She is a singular child,” said Mrs. Gillespie. “ She is grave 
certainly, but she don’t look moped at all, and I should think she 
would be, to death.” 

“ There’s not a bit of moping about her,” said Miss Sophia. 
“She can laugh and smile as well as any body; though she has 
sometimes that peculiar grave look of the eyes that would make a 
stranger doubt it. I think John Humphreys has infected her; 
he has something of the same look himself.” 

“I am not sure whether it is the eyes or the mouth, Sophia,” 
said Mr. Howard. 

“It is both,” said Miss Sophia. “ Did you ever see the eyes 
look one way and the mouth another?” 

“ And besides,” said Ellen Chauncey, “she has reason to look 
sober, I am sure.” 

“She is a fascinating child,” said Mrs. Gillespie. “I cannot 
comprehend where she gets the manner she has. I never saw a 
more perfectly polite child ; and there she has been for months 
with nobody to speak to her but two gentlemen and the servants. 
It is natural to her, I suppose ; she can have nobody to teach 
her.” 


476 


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“ I am not so sure as to that,” said Miss Sophia ; u hut I have 
noticed the same thing often. Did you observe her last night, 
Matilda, when John Humphreys came in ? you were talking to her 
at the moment ; — I saw her, before the door was opened, — I saw 
the colour come and her eye sparkle, but she did not look toward 
him for an instant till you had finished what you were saying to 
her and she had given, as she always does, her modest quiet 
answer ; and then her eye went straight as an arrow to where he 
was standing.” 

“ And yet,” said Mrs. Chauncey, “ she never moved toward him 
when you did, but stayed quietly on that side of the room with 
the young ones till he came round to them, and it was some time 
too ” 

“ She is an odd child,” said Miss Sophia, laughing, — “ what do 
you think she said to me yesterday ? I was talking to her and 
getting rather communicative on the subject of my neighbours’ 
affairs; and she asked me gravely, — the little monkey ! — if I was 
sure they would like her to hear it ? I felt quite rebuked ; though 
I didn’t choose to let her know as much.” 

“I wish Mr. John would bring her every week,” said Ellen 
Chauncey sighing; “ it would be so pleasant to have her.” 

Toward the end of the winter Mr. Humphreys began to propose 
that his son should visit England and Scotland during the following 
summer. He wished him to see his family and to know his native 
country, as well as some of the most distinguished men and in- 
stitutions in both kingdoms. Mr. George Marshman also urged 
upon him some business in which he thought he could be emi- 
nently useful. But Mr. John declined both propositions, still 
thinking he had more important duties at home. This only cloud 
that rose above Ellen’s horizon, scattered away. 

One evening, it was a Monday, in the twilight, John was as 
usual pacing up and down the floor. Ellen was reading in the 
window. 

“ Too late for you, Ellie.” 

“ Yes,” said Ellen , — u I know — I will stop in two minutes” — 

But in a quarter of that time she had lost every thought of 
stopping, and knew no longer that it was growing dusk. Some- 
body else, however, had not forgotten it. The two minutes were 
not ended, when a hand came between her and the page and 
quietly drew the book away. 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon !” cried Ellen starting up. “I entirely 
forgot all about it 1” 

He did not look displeased ; he was smiling. He drew her arm 
within his. 

“ Come and walk with me. Have you had any exercise to- 
day?” 


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477 


“ No.” 

“ Why not?” 

“ I had a good deal to do, and I had fixed myself so nicely on 
the sofa with my books ; and it looked cold and disagreeable out 
of doors.” 

“ Since when have you ceased to be a fixture ?” 

“What! — Oh,” said Ellen laughing, — “ how shall I ever get 
rid of that troublesome word ? What shall I say ? — I had 
arranged myself, established myself, so nicely on the sofa.” 

“ And did you think that a sufficient reason for not going 
out ?” 

“No,” said Ellen, “I did not; and I did not decide that I 
would not go ; and yet I let it keep me at home after all ; — just as 
I did about reading a few minutes ago. I meant to stop, but I 
forgot it, and I should have gone on I don’t know how long if you 
had not stopped me. I very often do so.” 

He paused a minute, and then said, 

“ You must not do so any more, Ellie.” 

The tone, in which there was a great deal both of love and de- 
cision, wound round Ellen’s heart, and constrained her to answer 
immediately, 

“ I will not — I will not.” 

“Never parley with conscience; — it is a dangerous habit.” 

“ But then — it was only ” 

“ About trifles ; I grant you ; but the habit is no trifle. There 
will not be a just firmness of mind and steadfastness of action, 
where tampering with duty is permitted even in little things.” 

“ I will try not to do it,” Ellen repeated. 

“ No,” said he smiling, — “let it stand as at first. 1 1 will not' 
means something ; ‘ I will try ,’ is very apt to come to nothing. ‘ I 
will keep thy precepts with my whole heart!’ — not ‘ I will try' 
Your reliance is precisely the same in either case.” 

“I will not, John,” said Ellen smiling. 

“ What were you poring over so intently a while ago ?” 

“ It was an old magazine — Blackwood’s Magazine, I believe, is 
the name of it — I found two great piles of them in a closet up 
stairs the other day ; and I brought this one down.” 

“ This is the first that you have read ?” 

“ Yes — I got very much interested in a curious story there ; — 
why ?’ ’ 

“ What will you say, Ellie, if I ask you to leave the rest of the 
two piles unopened ?” 

“ Why, I will say that I will do it, of course,” said Ellen, 
with a little smothered sigh of regret however; — “if you wish 
it.” 

“ I do wish it, Ellie.” 


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“ Very well— I’ll let them alone then. I have enough other 
reading; I don’t know how I happened to take that one up ; be- 
cause I saw it there, I suppose.” 

“ Have you finished Nelson yet?” 

“Oh, yes! — I finished it Saturday night. Oh, I like it very \ 
much ! I am going all over it again though. I like Nelson very 
much ; don’t you ?” 

“ Yes — as well as I can like a man of very fine qualities without 
principle.” 

“Was he that?” said Ellen. 

“Yes; did you not find it out? I am afraid your eyes were 
blinded by admiration.” 

“ Were they !” said Ellen. “ I thought he was so very fine, in 
every thing ; and I should be sorry to think he was not.’ ’ 

“ Look over the book again by all means, with a more critical 
eye ; and when you have done so you shall give me your cool esti- 
mate of his character.” 

“ Oh, me !” said Ellen. “ Well, — but I don’t know whether I 
can give you a cool estimate of him ; — however I’ll try. I can- 
not think coolly of him now, just after Trafalgar. I think it was 
a shame that Colling wood did not anchor as Nelson told him to ; 
don’t you? I think he might have been obeyed while he was liv- 
ing, at least.” 

“ It is difficult,” said John smiling, “ to judge correctly of many 
actions without having been on the spot and in the circumstances 
of the actors. I believe you and I must leave the question of 
Trafalgar to more nautical heads.” 

“ How pleasant this moonlight is !” said Ellen. 

“ What makes it pleasant?” 

“ What makes it pleasant! — I don’t know; I never thought of 
such a thing. It is made to be pleasant. — I can’t tell why ; can 
any body ?” 

“ The eye loves light for many reasons, but all kinds of light are 
not equally agreeable. What makes the peculiar charm of these 
long streams of pale light across the floor ? and the shadowy 
brightness without ?” 

“ You must tell,” said Ellen ; “ I cannot.” 

“ You know we enjoy any thing much more by contrast ; I think 
that is one reason. Night is the reign of darkness, which we do 
not love ; and here is light struggling with the darkness, not enough 
to overcome it entirely, but yet banishing it to nooks and corners 
and distant parts, by the side of which it shows itself in contrasted 
beauty. Our eyes bless the unwonted victory.” 

“ Yes,” said Ellen, — “ we only have moonlight nights once in a 
while.” 

“ But that is only one reason out of many, and not the greatest. 


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479 


It is a very refined pleasure, and to resolve it into its elements is 
something like trying to divide one of these same white rays of 
light into the many various coloured ones that go to form it ; — and 
not by any means so easy a task.” 

“ Then it was no wonder I couldn’t answer,” said Ellen. 

“No — you are hardly a full-grown philosopher yet, Ellie.” 

“The moonlight is so calm and quiet,” Ellen observed admir- 
ingly. 

“ And why is it calm and quiet ? — I must have an answer to 
that.” 

“Because we are generally calm and quiet at such times?” 
Ellen ventured after a little thought. 

“Precisely! — we and the world. And association has given 
the moon herself the same character. Besides that her mild sober 
light is not fitted for the purposes of active employment, and there- 
fore the more graciously invites us to the pleasures of thought and 
fancy.” 

“I am loving it more and more, the more you talk about it,” 
said Ellen laughing. 

“And there you have touched another reason, Ellie, for the 
pleasure we have, not only in moonlight, but in most other things. 
When two things have been in the mind together, and made any 
impression, the mind associates them ; and you cannot see or think 
of the one without bringing back the remembrance or the feeling 
of the other. If we have enjoyed the moonlight in pleasant scenes, 
in happy hours, with friends that we loved, — though the sight of 
it may not always make us directly remember them, it yet brings 
with it a waft from the feeling of the old times, — sweet as long 
as life lasts!” 

“And sorrowful things may be associated too?” said Ellen. 

“Yes, and sorrowful things. — But this power of association is 
the cause of half the pleasure we enjoy. There is a tune my 
mother used to sing — I cannot hear it now without being carried 
swiftly back to my boyish days, — to the very spirit of the time ; I 
feel myself spring over the greensward as I did then.” 

“ Oh, I know that is true,” said Ellen. “ The camellia, the white 
camellia you know, — I like it so much ever since what you said 
about it one day. I never see it without thinking of it ; and it 
would not seem half so beautiful but for that.” 

“ What did I say about it?” 

“Don’t you remember? you said it was like what you ought to 
be, and what you should be if you ever reached heaven ; and you 
repeated that verse in the Revelation about ‘ those that have not 
defiled their garments.’ I always think of it. It seems to give 
me a lesson.” 

“How eloquent of beautiful lessons all nature would be to us,” 


480 THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 

said John musingly, “ if we had but the eye and the ear to take 
them in.” 

“ And in that way you would heap associations upon associa- 
tions ?” 

“ Yes; till our storehouse of pleasure was very full.” 

“ You do that now,” said Ellen. “ I wish you would teach me.” 

“ I have read precious things sometimes in the bunches of flowers 
you are so fond of, Ellie. Cannot you?” 

“ I don’t know — I only think of themselves ; except — sometimes, 
they make me think of Alice.” 

“ You know from any works we may form some judgment of 
the mind and character of their author?” 

“From their writings, I know you can,” said Ellen; — “from 
what other works ?” 

“ From any which are not mechanical ; from any in which the 
mind, not the hand, has been the creating power. I saw you very 
much interested the other day in the Eddystone lighthouse ; did 
it help you to form no opinion of Mr. Smeaton?” 

“ Why yes, certainly,” said Ellen, — “ I admired him exceedingly 
for his cleverness and perseverance ; but what other works ? — I 
can’t think of any.” 

“ There is the lighthouse, — that is one thing. What do you 
think of the ocean waves that now and then overwhelm it?” 

Ellen half shuddered. “I shouldn’t like to go to sea, John 1 
But you were speaking of men’s works and women’s works?” 

“ Well, women’s works, — I cannot help forming some notion of 
a lady’s mind and character from the way she dresses herself.” 

“ Can you i do you !” 

“ I cannot help doing it. Many things appear in the style of a 
lady’s dress that she never dreams of ; — the style of her thoughts 
among others.” 

“It is a pity ladies didn’t know that,” said Ellen, laughing; — 
“ they would be very careful.” 

“ It wouldn’t mend the matter, Ellie. That is one of the things 
in which people are obliged to speak truth. As the mind is, so it 
will show itself.” 

“ But we have got a great way from the flowers,” said Ellen. 

“You shall bring me some to-morrow, Ellie, and we will read 
them together.” 

“There are plenty over there now,” said Ellen, looking toward 
the little flower-stand, which was as full and as flourishing as ever, 
— “ but we can’t see them well by this light.” 

“ A bunch of flowers seems to bring me very near the hand that 
made them. They are the work of his fingers ; and I cannot con- 
sider them without being joyfully assured of the glory and love- 
liness of their Creator. It is written as plainly to me in their 


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481 



delicate painting and sweet breath and curious structure, as in the 
very pages of the Bible ; though no doubt without the Bible I 
could not read the flowers.” 

“ I never thought much of that,” said Ellen. “ And then you 
find particular lessons in particular flowers ?” 

“ Sometimes.” 

“ Oh, come here!” said Ellen, pulling him toward the flower- 
stand, — “ and tell me what this daphne is like — you need not see 
that, only smell it, that’s enough ; — do John, and tell me what it is 
like 1” 

He smiled as he complied with her request, and walked away 
again. 

“ Well, what is it?” said Ellen ; “I know you have thought of 
something.” 

“ It is like the fragrance that Christian society sometimes leaves 
upon the spirit; when it is just what it ought to be.” 

“ My Mr. Marshman !” exclaimed Ellen. 

John smiled again. “ I thought of him, Ellie. And I thought 
also of Cowper’s lines : — 

“ ‘ When one who holds communion with the skies, 

Has filled his urn where those pure waters rise, 

Descends and dwells among us meaner things, — 

It is as if an angel shook his wings !’ ” 

Ellen was silent a moment from pleasure. 

“Well, I have got an association now with the daphne!” she 
said joyously; and presently added, sighing, — “How much you 
see in every thing, that I do not see at all.” 

“Time, Ellie,” said John ; — “there must be time for that. It 
will come. Time is cried out upon as a great thief ; it is people’s 
own fault. Use him but well, and you will get from his hand 
more than he will ever take from you.” 

Ellen’s thoughts travelled on a little way from this speech, — 
and then came a sigh, of some burden, as it seemed ; and her face 
was softly laid against the arm she held. 

“ Let us leave all that to God,” said John gently. 

Ellen started. “ How did you know — how could you know 
what I was thinking of?” 

“ Perhaps my thoughts took the same road,” said he smiling. 
“ But Ellie, dear, let us look to that one source of happiness that 
can never be dried up ; it is not safe to count upon any thing 
else.” 

“ It is not wonderful,” said Ellen in a tremulous voice, — “if 
I ” 

“It is not wonderful, Ellie, nor wrong. But we, who look up 
to God as our Father, — who rejoice in Christ our Saviour, — we are 
V ff 41 


482 


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happy, whatever beside we may gain or lose. Let us trust him, 
and never doubt that, Ellie.” 

“ But still” — said Ellen. 

“ But still, we will hope and pray alike in that matter. And 
while we do, and may, with our whole hearts, let us leave ourselves 
in our Father’s hand. The joy of the knowledge of Christ ! the 
joy the world cannot intermeddle with, the peace it cannot take 
away ! — Let us make that our own, Ellie ; and for the rest put 
away all anxious care about what we cannot control.” 

Ellen’s hand however did not just then lie quite so lightly on his 
arm as it did a few minutes ago ; he could feel that ; and could see 
the glitter of one or two tears in the moonlight as they fell. The 
hand was fondly taken in his ; and as they slowly paced up and 
down, he went on in low tones of kindness and cheerfulness with 
his pleasant talk, till she was too happy in the present to be anxious 
about the future ; looked up again and brightly into his face, and 
questions and answers came as gayly as ever. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

Who knows what may happen ? Patience and shuffle the cards ? . . . Perhaps 
after all, I shall some day go to Rome, and come back St. Peter. 

Longfellow. 

The rest of the winter, or rather the early part of the spring, 
passed happily away. March, at Thirlwall, seemed more to belong 
to the former than the latter. Then spring came in good earnest ; 
April and May brought warm days and wild flowers. Ellen re- 
freshed herself and adorned the room with quantities of them ; and 
as soon as might be she set about restoring the winter-ruined 
garden. Mr. John was not fond of gardening ; he provided her 
with all manner of tools, ordered whatever work she wanted to be 
done for her, supplied her with new plants, and seeds, and roots, 
and was always ready to give her his help in any operations or 
press of business that called for it. But for the most part Ellen 
hoed, and raked, and transplanted, and sowed seeds, while he walked 
or read ; often giving his counsel indeed, asked and unasked, and 
always coming in between her and any difficult or heavy job. The 
hours thus spent were to Ellen hours of unmixed delight. When 
he did not choose to go himself he sent Thomas with her, as the 
garden was some little distance down the mountain, away from the 
house and from every body ; he never allowed her to go there 
alone. 

As if to verify Mr. Van Brunt’s remark, that “something is 


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483 


always happening most years,” about the middle of May there 
came letters that after all determined John’s going abroad. The 
sudden death of two relatives, one after the other, had left the 
family estate to Mr. Humphreys ; it required the personal attend- 
ance either of himself or his son ; he could not, therefore his son 



must, go. Once on the other side of the Atlantic, Mr. John 
thought it best his going should fulfil all the ends for which both 
Mr. Humphreys and Mr. Marshman had desired it ; this would 
occasion his stay to be prolonged to at least a year, probably more. 
And he must set off without delay. 



484 


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In the midst, not of his hurry, for Mr. John seldom was or 
seemed to be in a hurry about any thing ; but in the midst of his 
business, he took special care of every thing that concerned or 
could possibly concern Ellen. He arranged what books she should 
read, what studies she should carry on ; and directed that about 
these matters as well as about all others she should keep up a con- 
stant communication with him by letter. He requested Mrs. 
Chauncey to see that she wanted nothing, and to act as her gen- 
eral guardian in all minor things, respecting which Mr. Hum- 
phreys could be expected to take no thought whatever. And 
what Ellen thanked him for most of all, he found time for all his 
wonted rides, and she thought more than his wonted talks with 
her ; endeavouring, as he well knew how, both to strengthen and 
cheer her mind in view of his long absence. The memory of those 
hours never went from her. 

The family at Ventnor were exceeding desirous that she should 
make one of them during all the time John should be gone ; they 
urged it with every possible argument. Ellen said little, but he 
knew she did not wish it ; and finally compounded the matter by 
arranging that she should stay at the parsonage through the sum- 
mer, and spend the winter at Ventnor, sharing all Ellen Chauncey’s 
advantages of every kind. Ellen was all the more pleased with 
this arrangement that Mr. George Marshman would be at home. 
The church John had been serving were becoming exceedingly 
attached to him and would by no means hear of giving him up ; 
and Mr. George engaged, if possible, to supply his place while he 
should be away. Ellen Chauncey was in ecstasies. And it was 
further promised that the summer should not pass without as 
many visits on both sides as could well be brought about. 

Ellen had the comfort, at the last, of hearing John say that she 
had behaved unexceptionably well where he knew it was difficult 
for her to behave well at all. That was a comfort, from him, 
whose notions of unexceptionable behaviour she knew were re- 
markably high. But the parting, after all, was a dreadfully hard 
matter ; though softened as much as it could be at the time and 
rendered very sweet to Ellen’s memory by the tenderness, gentle- 
ness, and kindness, with which her brother without checking 
soothed her grief. He was to go early in the morning ; and he 
made Ellen take leave of him the night before ; but he was in no 
hurry to send her away ; and when at length he told her it was 
very late, and she rose up to go, he went with her to the very door 
of her room and there bade her good-night. 

How the next days passed Ellen hardly knew ; they were un- 
speakably long. 

Not a week after, one morning Nancy Vawse came into the 
kitchen, and asked in her blunt fashion, 


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485 


“ Is Ellen Montgomery at home ?” 

“ I believe Miss Ellen is in the parlour,” said Margery 
dryly. 

“ I want to speak to her.” 

Margery silently went across the hall to the sitting-room. 

“ Miss Ellen, dear,” she said softly, “ here is that Nancy girl 
wanting to speak with you, — will you please to see her?” 

Ellen eagerly desired Margery to let her in, by no means dis- 
pleased to have some interruption to the sorrowful thoughts she 
could not banish. She received Nancy very kindly. 

“ Well, I declare, Ellen !” said that young lady, whose wander- 
ing eye was upon every thing but Ellen herself, — “ ain’t you as 
fine as a fiddle ? I guess you never touch your fingers to a file 
now-a-days, — do you ?” 

“ A file !” said Ellen. 

“ You ha’ n’t forgot what it means, I s’ pose,” said Nancy some- 
what scornfully, — “ ’cause if you think I’m a going to swallow 
that, you’re mistaken. I’ve seen you file off tables down yonder 
a few times, ha’n’t I ?” 

“Oh, I remember now,” said Ellen smiling; — “it is so long 
since I heard the word that I didn’t know what you meant. Mar- 
gery calls it a dishcloth, or a floorcloth, or something else.” 

“ Well, you don’t touch one now-a-days, do you ?” 

“ No,” said Ellen, “ I have other things to do.” 

“ Well, I guess you have. You’ve got enough of books now, 
for once, ha’n’t you? What a lot ! — I say, Ellen, have you got to 
read all these ?” 

“I hope so, in time,” said Ellen, smiling. “Why haven’t you 
been to see me before?” 

“ Oh, — I don’t know !” — said Nancy, whose roving eye looked 
a little as if she felt herself out of her sphere. “I didn’t know 
as you would care to see me now.” 

“ I am very sorry you should think so, Nancy; I would be as 
glad to see you as ever. I have not forgotten all your old kindness 
to me when aunt Fortune was sick.” 

“You’ve forgotten all that went before that, I’spose,” said 
Nancy with a half laugh. “ You beat all ! Most folks remember 
and forget just t’other way exactly. But besides, I didn’t know 
but I should catch myself in queer company.” 

“ Well — I am all alone now,” said Ellen, with a sigh. 

“Yes, if you warn’t I wouldn’t be here, I can tell you. What 
do you think I have come for to-day, Ellen ?” 

“ For any thing but to see me ?” 

Nancy nodded very decisively. 

“What?” 

“ Guess.” 


41 * 


486 


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“ How can I possibly guess? What have you got tucked up in 
your apron there ?’ ’ 

“ Ah ! — that’s the very thing,” said Nancy. “ What have I 
got, sure enough ?” 

“ Well, I can’t tell through your apron,” said Ellen smiling. 

“And /can’t tell either; — that’s more, ain’t it? Now listen, 
and I’ll tell you where I got it, and then you may find out what it 
is, for I don’t know. Promise you won’t tell any body.” 

“I don’t like to promise that, Nancy.” 

“Why?” | 

“ Because it might be something I ought to tell somebody 
about.” 

“ But it ain’t.” 

“ If it isn’t I won’t tell. Can’t you leave it so ?” 

“ But what a plague ! Here I have gone and done all this just j 
for you, and now you must go and make a fuss. What hurt would 
it do you to promise? — it’s nobody’s business but yours and mine, 
and somebody else’s that won’t make any talk about it I promise 
you.” 

“ I won’t speak of it, certainly, Nancy, unless I think I ought ; 
can’t you trust me?” 

“I wouldn’t give two straws for any body else’s say so,” said 
Nancy; — “ but as you’re as stiff as the mischief I s’ pose I’ll have 
to let it go. I’ll trust you! Now listen. It don’t look like any 
thing, does it ?” 

“ Why no,” said Ellen laughing ; “ you hold your apron so loose 
that I cannot see any thing.” 

“Well, now listen. You know I’ve been helping down at your 
aunt’s, — did you ?” 

“No.” 

“ Well, I have, — these six weeks. You never see any thing go on 
quieter than they do, Ellen. I declare it’s fun. Miss Fortune never 
was so good in her days. I don’t mean she ain’t as ugly as ever, you 
know, but she has to keep it in. All I have to do if I think any 
thing is going wrong, I just let her think I am going to speak to 
him about it ; — only I have to do it very cunning for fear she would 
guess what I am up to ; and the next thing I know it’s all straight. 
He is about the coolest shaver,” said Nancy, “ I ever did see. The 
way he walks through her notions once in a while — not very often, 
mind you, but when he takes a fancy, — it’s fun to see ! Oh, I can 
get along there first-rate now. You'd have a royal time, Ellen.” 

“ Well, Nancy — your story ?” 

“ Don’t you be in a hurry ! I am going to take my time. Well 
I’ve been there this six weeks ; doing all sorts of things, you know ; 
taking your place, Ellen; don’t you wish you was back in it? — 
Well a couple of weeks since, Mrs. Van took it into her head 




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487 


she would have up the wagon and go to Thirl wall to get herself 
somethings; a queer start for her; but at any rate Van Brunt 
brought up the wagon and in she got and off they went. Now 
she meant , you must know, that I should be fast in the cellar-kitchen 
all the while she was gone, and she thought she had given me 
enough to keep me busy there ; but I was up to her ! I was as 
spry as a cricket, and flew round, and got things put up ; and then 
I thought I’d have some fun. What do you think I did ? — Mrs. 
Montgomery was quietly sitting in the chimney-corner and I had 
the whole house to myself. How Van Brunt looks out for her, 
Ellen ; he won’t let her be put out for any thing or any body.” 

“I am glad of it,” said Ellen, her face flushing and her eyes 
watering ; “ it is just like him. I love him for it.” 

“ The other night she was mourning and lamenting at a great 
rate because she hadn’t you to read to her ; and what do you think 
he does but goes and takes the book and sits down and reads to 
her himself. You should have seen Mrs. Van’s face !” 

“ What book?” said Ellen. 

“ What book ? — why your book, — the Bible, — there ain’t any 
other book in the house, as I know. What on earth are you cry- 
ing for, Ellen? — He’s fetched over his mother’s old Bible, and 
there it lays on a shelf in the cupboard ; and he has it out every 
once in a while. Maybe he’s coming round, Ellen. But do hold 
up your head and listen to me ! I can’t talk to you while you lie 
with your head in the cushion like that. I lia’n’t more than begun 
my story yet.” 

“ Well, go on,” said Ellen. 

“ You see, I ain’t in any hurry,” said Nancy, — “ because as soon 
as I’ve finished I shall have to be off ; and it’s fun to talk to you. 
What do you think I did, when I had done up all my chores ? — 
where do you think I found this, eh ? you'd never guess.” 

“ What is it?” said Ellen. 

“ No matter what it is ; — I don’t know ; — where do you think I 
found it?” 

“ How can I tell ? I don’t know.” 

“ You’ll be angry with me when I tell you.” 

Ellen was silent. 

“ If it was any body else,” said Nancy, — “ I’d ha’ seen ’em shot 
afore I’d ha’ done it, or told of it either; but you ain’t like any 
body else. Look here !” said she, tapping her apron gently with 
one finger and slowly marking off each word, — “this — came 
out of— your — aunt’s — box — in — the closet — up stairs — in — her 
room.” 

“ Nancy !” 

“ Ay, Nancy ! there it is. Now you look ! ’Twon’t alter it, 
Ellen; that’s where it was, if you look till tea-time.” 


488 


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“ But how came you there ?” 

“ ’Cause I wanted to amuse myself, I tell you. Partly to please 
myself, and partly because Mrs. Van would be so mad if she knew 
it.” 

“Oh, Nancy!” 

“Well — I don’t say it was right, — but any how I did it; you 
ha’ n’t heard what I found yet.” 

“You had better put it right back again, Nancy, the first time 
you have a chance.” 

“ Put it back again — I’ll give it to you, and then you may put 
it back again, if you have a mind. I should like to see you. Why 
you don’t know what I found.” 

“ Well, what did you find?” 

“ The box was chuck full of all sorts of things, and I had a 
mind to see what was in it, so I pulled ’em out one after the other 
till I got to the bottom. At the very bottom was some letters and 
papers, and there, — staring right in my face, — the first thing I see 
was, ‘ Miss Ellen Montgomery.’ ” 

“ Oh, Nancy !” screamed Ellen, — “ a letter for me ?” 

“ Hush ! — and sit down, will you ? — yes, a whole package of 
letters for you. Well, thought I, Mrs. Van has no right to that 
any how, and she ain’t a going to take the care of it any more ; so 
I just took it up and put it in the bosom of my frock while I 
looked to see if there was any more for you, but there warn’t. 
There it is !” — 

And she tossed the package into Ellen’s lap. Ellen’s head 
swam. 

“ Well, good-by !” said Nancy rising; — “ I may go now I sup- 
pose, and no thanks to me.” 

“Yes I do — I do thank you very much, Nancy,” cried Ellen, 
starting up and taking her by the hand, — “I do thank you, — 
though it wasn’t right ; — but oh, how could she ! how could she !” 

“ Dear me !” said Nancy ; “ to ask that of Mrs. Van ! she could 
do any thing. Why she did it, ain’t so easy to tell.” 

Ellen, bewildered, scarcely knew, only felt , that Nancy had gone. 
The outer cover of her package, the seal of which was broken, con- 
tained three letters; two addressed to Ellen, in her father’s hand, 
the third to another person. The seals of these had not been 
broken. The first that Ellen opened she saw was all in the same 
hand with the direction ; she threw it down and eagerly tried the 
other. And yes ! there was indeed the beloved character of which 
she never thought to have seen another specimen. Ellen’s heart 
swelled with many feelings; thankfulness, tenderness, joy, and 
sorrow, past and present ; — that letter was not thrown down, but 
grasped, while tears fell much too fast for eyes to do their work. 
It was long before she could get far in the letter. But when she 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 489 

had fairly begun it, she went on swiftly, and almost breathlessly, 
to the end. 

“ My dear, dear little Ellen, 

“ I am scarcely able — but I must write to you once more. Once 
more, daughter, for it is not permitted me to see your face again 
in this world. I look to see it, my dear child, where it will be 
fairer than ever here it seemed, even to me. I shall die in this 
hope and expectation. Ellen, remember it. Your last letters have 
greatly encouraged and rejoiced me. I am comforted, and can 
leave you quietly in that hand that has led me and I believe is 
leading you. God bless you, my child ! 

“ Ellen, I have a mother living, and she wishes to receive you 
as her own when I am gone. It is best you should know at once 
why I never spoke to you of her. After your aunt Bessy married 
and went to New York, it displeased and grieved my mother greatly 
that I too, who had always been her favourite child, should leave 
her for an American home. And when I persisted, in spite of all 
that entreaties and authority could urge, she said she forgave me 
for destroying all her prospects of happiness, but that after I 
should be married and gone she should consider me as lost to her 
entirely, and so I must consider myself. She never wrote to me, 
and I never wrote to her after I reached America. She was dead 
to me. I do not say that I did not deserve it. 

“ But I have written to her lately and she has written to me. 
She permits me to die in the joy of being entirely forgiven, and in 
the further joy of knowing that the only source of care I had left 
is done away. She will take you to her heart, to the place I once 
filled, and I believe fill yet. She longs to have you, and to have 
you as entirely her own, in all respects ; and to this, in considera- 
tion of the wandering life your father leads, and will lead, — I am 
willing and he is willing to agree. It is arranged so. The old 
happy home of my childhood will be yours, my Ellen. It joys 
me to think of it. Your father will write to your aunt and to you 
on the subject, and furnish you with funds. It is our desire that 
you should take advantage of the very first opportunity of proper 
persons going to Scotland who will be willing to take charge of 
you. Your dear friends, Mr. and Miss Humphreys, will, I dare 
say, help you in this. 

“ To them I could say much, if I had strength. But words are 
little. If blessings and prayers from a full heart are worth any 
thing, they are the richer. My love and gratitude to them can- 
not ” 

The writer had failed here ; and what there was of the letter 
had evidently been written at different times. Captain Mont- 


490 


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gomery’s was to the same purpose. He directed Ellen to embrace 
the first opportunity of suitable guardians, to cross the Atlantic 
and repair to No. — Georges-street, Edinburgh ; and that Miss 
Fortune would give her the money she would need, which he had 
written to her to do, and that the accompanying letter Ellen was to 
carry with her and deliver to Mrs. Lindsay, her grandmother. 

Ellen felt as if her head would split. She took up that letter, 
gazed at the strange name and direction which had taken such new 
and startling interest for her, wondered over the thought of what 
she was ordered to do with it, marvelled what sort of fingers they 
were which would open it, or whether it would ever be opened ; — 
and finally, in a perfect maze, unable to read, think, or even weep, 
she carried her package of letters into her own room, the room that 
had been Alice’s, laid herself on the bed, and them beside her; 
and fell into a deep sleep. 

She woke up toward evening with the pressure of a mountain 
weight upon her mind. Her thoughts and feelings were a maze 
still ; and not Mr. Humphreys himself could be more grave and 
abstracted than poor Ellen was that night. So many points were 
to be settled, — so many questions answered to herself, — it was a 
good while before Ellen could disentangle them, and know what 
she did think and feel, and what she would do. 

She very soon found out her own mind upon one subject, — she 
would be exceeding sorry to be obliged to obey the directions in 
the letters. But must she obey them ? 

“ I have promised Alice,” thought Ellen ; — “ I have promised Mr. 
Humphreys — I can’t be adopted twice. And this Mrs. Lindsay, — 
my grandmother ! — she cannot be nice or she wouldn’t have treated 
my mother so. She cannot be a nice person ; — hard, — she must 
be hard ; — I never want to see her. My mother ! — But then my 
mother loved her, and was very glad to have me go to her. Oh ! 
— oh ! how could she ! — how could they do so ! — when they didn’t 
know how it might be with me, and what dear friends they might 
make me leave ! Oh, it was cruel ! — But then they did not know, 
that is the very thing — they thought I would have nobody but 
aunt Fortune, and so it’s no wonder — Oh, what shall I do ! What 
ought I to do ? These people in Scotland must have given me up 
by this time ; it’s — let me see — it’s just about three years now, — 
a little less, — since these letters were written. I am older now, and 
circumstances are changed ; I have a home and a father and a 
brother; may I not judge for myself? — But my mother and my 
father have ordered me, — what shall I do ! — If John were only 
here — but perhaps he would make me go, — he might think it right. 
And to leave him, — and maybe never to see him again ! — and Mr. 
Humphreys ! and how lonely he would be without me, I cannot ! 
I will not ! Oh, what shall I do ! What shall I do !” 


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491 


Ellen’s meditations gradually plunged her in despair; for she 
could not look at the event of being obliged to go, and she could 
not get rid of the feeling that perhaps it might come to that. She 
wept bitterly ; it didn’t mend the matter. She thought painfully, 
fearfully, long ; and was no nearer an end. She could not endure 
to submit the matter to Mr. Humphreys ; she feared his decision ; 
and she feared also that he would give her the money Miss Fortune 
had failed to supply for the journey ; how much it might be Ellen 
had no idea. She could not dismiss the subject as decided by cir- 
cumstances, for conscience pricked her with the fifth commandment. 
She was miserable. It happily occurred to her at last to take 
counsel with Mrs. Vawse; this might be done she knew without 
betraying Nancy; Mrs. Yawse was much too honourable to press 
her as to how she came by the letters, and her word could easily be 
obtained not to speak of the affairs to any one. As for Miss Fortune’s 
conduct, it must be made known ; there was no help for that. So 
it was settled ; and Ellen’s breast was a little lightened of its load 
of care for that time ; she had leisure to think of some other 
things. 

Why had Miss Fortune kept back the letters ? Ellen guessed 
pretty well, but she did not know quite all. The package, with 
its accompanying despatch to Miss Fortune, had arrived shortly 
after Ellen first heard the news of her mother’s death, when 
she was refuged with Alice at the parsonage. At the time of its 
being sent Captain Montgomery’s movements were extremely un- 
certain ; and in obedience to the earnest request of his wife he 
directed that without waiting for his own return Ellen should im- 
mediately set out for Scotland. Part of the money for her expenses 
he sent ; the rest he desired his sister to furnish, promising to make 
all straight when he should come home. But it happened that he 
was already this lady’s debtor in a small amount, which Miss 
Fortune had serious doubts of ever being repaid ; she instantly 
determined that if she had once been a fool in lending him money, 
she would not a second time in adding to the sum ; if he wanted 
to send his daughter on a wild-goose-chase after great relations, he 
might come home himself and see to it ; it was none of her business. 
Quietly taking the remittance to refund his own owing, she of 
course threw the letters into her box, as the delivery of them would 
expose the whole transaction. There they lay till Nancy found 
them. 

Early next morning after breakfast Ellen came into the kitchen, 
and begged Margery to ask Thomas to bring the Brownie to the 
door. Surprised at the energy in her tone and manner, Margery 
gave the message and added that Miss Ellen seemed to have picked 
up wonderfully ; she hadn’t heard her speak so brisk since Mr. 
John went away. 


492 


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The Brownie was soon at the door, but not so soon as Ellen, 
who had dressed in feverish haste. The Brownie was not alone ; 
there was old John saddled and bridled, and Thomas Grimes in 
waiting. 

“ It’s not necessary for you to take that trouble, Thomas,” said 
Ellen ; — “ I don’t mind going alone at all.” 

“I beg your pardon, Miss Ellen, — (Thomas touched his hat) — 
but Mr. John left particular orders that I was to go with Miss Ellen 
whenever it pleased her to ride ; never failing.” 

“Did he!” said Ellen; — “but is it convenient for you now, 
Thomas? I want to go as far as Mrs. Vawse’s.” 

“It’s always convenient, Miss Ellen, — always; Miss Ellen need 
not think of that at all, I am always ready.” 

Ellen mounted upon the Brownie, sighing for the want of the 
hand that used to lift her to the saddle ; and spurred by this recol- 
lection set off at a round pace. 

Soon she was at Mrs. Vawse’s ; and soon finding her alone, Ellen 
had spread out all her difficulties before her and given her the 
letters to read. Mrs. Vawse readily promised to speak on the 
subject to no one without Ellen’s leave ; her suspicions fell upon 
Mr. Van Brunt, not her grand-daughter. She heard all the story, 
and read the letters before making any remark. 

“Now, dear Mrs. Vawse,” said Ellen anxiously, when the last 
one was folded up and laid on the table, — “ what do you think?” 

“I think, my child, you must go,” said the old lady steadily. 

Ellen looked keenly, as if ^o find some other answer in her face ; 
her own changing more and more for a minute, till she sunk it in 
her hands. 

“ Cela vous donne beaucoup de chagrin, — -je le vois bien,” said 
the old lady tenderly. (Their conversations were always in Mrs. 
Vawse’s tongue.) 

“ But,” said Ellen presently, lifting her head again, (there were 
no tears) — “ I cannot go without money.” 

“ That can be obtained without any difficulty.” 

“ From whom ? I cannot ask aunt Fortune for it, Mrs. Vawse ; 
I could not do it !” 

“ There is no difficulty about the money. Show your letters to 
Mr. Humphreys.” 

“ Oh, I cannot !” said Ellen, covering her face again. 

“ Will you let me do it? I will speak to him if you permit 
me.” 

“ But what use? He ought not to give me the money, Mrs. 
Vawse? It would not be right; and to show him the letters 
would be like asking him for it. Oh, I can’t bear to do that !” 

“ He would give it you, Ellen, with the greatest pleasure.” 

“ Oh, no, Mrs. Vawse,” said Ellen, bursting into tears, — “he 


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493 


would never be pleased to send me away from him ! I know — I 
know — he would miss me. Oh, what shall I do ?” 

“ Not that , my dear Ellen,” said the old lady, coming to her and 
gently stroking her head with both hands. “ You must do what is 
right ; and you know it cannot be but that will be the best and 
happiest for you in the end.” 

“ Oh, I wish — I wish,” exclaimed Ellen from the bottom of her 
heart, — “ those letters had never been found !” 

“ Nay, Ellen, that is not right.” 

“ But I promised Alice, Mrs. Yawse ; ought I go away and leave 
him? Oh, Mrs. Yawse, it is very hard! Ought I?” 

“ Your father and your mother have said it, my child.” 

“ But they never would have said it if they had known?” 

“ But they did not know, Ellen ; and here it is.” 

Ellen wept violently, regardless of the caresses and soothing 
words which her old friend lavished upon her. 

“ There is one thing !” said she at last, raising her head, — “ I 
don’t know of any body going to Scotland, and I am not likely to ; 
and if I only do not before autumn, — that is not a good time to go, 
and then comes winter.” 

“ My dear Ellen !” said Mrs. Yawse sorrowfully, “ I must drive 
you from your last hope. Don’t you know that Mrs. Gillespie is 
going abroad with all her family? — next month I think.” 

Ellen grew pale for a minute, and sat holding bitter counsel with 
her own heart. Mrs. Yawse hardly knew what to say next. 

“ You need not feel uneasy about your journeying expenses,” 
she remarked after a pause; — “you can easily repay them, if you 
wish, when you reach your friends in Scotland.” 

Ellen did not hear her. She looked up with an odd expression 
of determination in her face, determination taking its stand upon 
difficulties. 

“ I shan’t stay there, Mrs. Yawse, if I go! — I shall go, I sup- 
pose, if I must ; but do you think any thing will keep me there ? 
Never !” 

“ You will stay for the same reason that you go for, Ellen ; to 
do your duty.” 

“ Yes, till I am old enough to choose for myself, Mrs. Yawse, 
and then I shall come back ; if they will let me.” 

“ Whom do you mean by 1 they ?’ ” 

“ Mr. Humphreys and Mr. John.” 

“ My dear Ellen,” said the old lady kindly, “ be satisfied with 
doing your duty now ; leave the future. While you follow him, 
God will be your friend ; is not that enough ? and all things shall 
work for your good. You do not know what you will wish when 
the time comes you speak of. You do not know what new friends 
you may find to love.” 


42 


494 


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Ellen had in her own heart the warrant for what she had said 
and what she saw by her smile Mrs. Yawse doubted ; but she dis- 
dained to assert what she could bring nothing to prove. She took 
a sorrowful leave of her old friend and returned home. 

After dinner, when Mr. Humphreys was about going back to his 
study, Ellen timidly stopped him and gave him her letters, and 
asked him to look at them some time when he had leisure. She 
told him also where they were found and how long they had lain 
there, and that Mrs. Yawse had said she ought to show them to 
him. 

She guessed he would read them at once, — and she waited with 
a beating heart. In a little while she heard his step coming back 
along the hall. He came and sat down by her on the sofa and 
took her hand. 

“ What is your wish in this matter, my child?” he said gravely 
and cheerfully. 

Ellen’s look answered that. 

“I will do whatever you say I must, sir,” she said faintly. 

“ I dare not ask myself what I would wish, Ellen ; the matter is 
taken out of our hands. You must do your parents’ will, my 
child. I will try to hope that you will gain more than I lose. As 
the Lord pleases ! If I am bereaved of my children, I am be- 
reaved.” 

“Mrs. Gillespie,” he said after a pause, “is about going to 
England ; — I know not how soon. It will be best for you to see 
her at once and make all arrangements that may be necessary. I 
will go with you to-morrow to Yentnor if the day be a good one.” 

There was something Ellen longed to say, but it was impossible 
to get it out ; she could not utter a word. She had pressed her 
hands upon her face to try to keep herself quiet ; but Mr. Hum- 
phreys could see the deep crimson flushing to the very roots of her 
hair. He drew her close within his arms for a moment, kissed her 
forehead, Ellen felt it was sadly, and went away. It was well she 
did not hear him sigh as he went back along the hall ; it was well 
she did not see the face of more settled gravity with which he sat 
down to his writing ; she had enough of her own. 

They went to Yentnor. Mrs. Gillespie with great pleasure 
undertook the charge of her and promised to deliver her safely to 
her friends in Scotland. It was arranged that she should go back 
to Thirlwall to make her adieus ; and that in a week or two a car- 
riage should be sent to bring her to Yentnor, where her prepara- 
tions for the journey should be made, and whence the whole party 
would set off. 

“ So you are going to be a Scotchwoman after all, Ellen,” said 
Miss Sophia. 

“ I had a great deal rather be an American, Miss Sophia.” 


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“ Why Hutchinson will tell you,” said the young lady, “ that it 
is infinitely more desirable to be a Scotchwoman than that.” 

Ellen’s face, however, looked so little inclined to be merry that 
she took up the subject in another tone. 

“ Seriously, do you know,” said she, “ I have been thinking it is 
a very happy thing for you. I don’t know what would become of 
you alone in that great parsonage house. You would mope your- 
self to death in a little while ; especially now that Mr. John is 
gone.” 

“ He will be back,” said Ellen. 

11 Yes but what if he is? he can’t stay at Thirlwall, child. He 
can’t live thirty miles from his church you know. Did you think 
he would? They think all the world of him already. I expect 
they’ll barely put up with Mr. George while he is gone ; — they 
will want Mr. John all to themselves when he comes back, you 
may rely on that. What are you thinking of, child?” 

For Ellen’s eyes were sparkling with two or three thoughts 
which Miss Sophia could not read. 

“ I should like to know what you are smiling at,” she said with 
some curiosity. But the smile was almost immediately quenched 
in tears. 

Notwithstanding Miss Sophia’s discouraging talk, Ellen pri- 
vately agreed with Ellen Chauncey that the Brownie should be 
sent to her to keep and use as her own, till his mistress should come 
hack; both children being entirely of opinion that the arrange- 
ment was a most unexceptionable one. 

It was not forgotten that the lapse of three years since the date 
of the letters left some uncertainty as to the present state of affairs 
among Ellen’s friends'in Scotland ; but this doubt was not thought 
sufficient to justify her letting pass so excellent an opportunity of 
making the journey. Especially as Captain Montgomery’s letter 
spoke of an uncle, to whom equally with her grandmother, Ellen 
was to be consigned. In case circumstances would permit it, Mrs. 
Gillespie engaged to keep Ellen with her, and bring her home to 
America when she herself should return. 

And in little more than a month they were gone ; adieus and 
preparations and all were over. Ellen’s parting with Mrs. Yawse 
was very tender and very sad ; — with Mr. Van Brunt, extremely and 
gratefully affectionate, on both sides ; — with her aunt, constrained 
and brief; — with Margery, very sorrowful indeed. But Ellen’s 
longest and most lingering adieu was to Captain Parry, the old 
grey cat. For one whole evening she sat with him in her arms ; 
and over poor pussy were shed the tears that fell for many better 
loved and better deserving personages, as well as those not a few 
that were wept for him. Since Alice’s death Parry had transferred 
his entire confidence and esteem to Ellen ; whether from feeling a 


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want, or because love and tenderness had taught her the touch and 
the tone that were fitted to win his regard. Only John shared it. 
Ellen was his chief favourite and almost constant companion. And 
bitterer tears Ellen shed at no time than that evening before she 
went away, over the old cat. She could not distress kitty with her 
distress, nor weary him with the calls upon his sympathy, though 
indeed it is true that he sundry times poked his nose up wonder- 
ingly and caressingly in her face. She had no remonstrance or 
interruption to fear ; and taking pussy as the emblem and repre- 
sentative of the whole household, Ellen wept them all over him ; 
with a tenderness and a bitterness that were somehow intensified 
by the sight of the grey coat, and white paws, and kindly face, 
of her unconscious old brute friend. 

The old people at Carra-carra were taken leave of ; the Brownie 
too, with great difficulty. And Nancy. 

“I am real sorry you are going, Ellen,” said she; — “you’re 
the only soul in town I care about. I wish I’d thrown them letters 
in the fire after all ! Who’d ha’ thought it 1” 

Ellen could not help in her heart echoing the wish. 

“ I’m real sorry, Ellen,” she repeated. “ Ain’t there something 
I can do for you when you are gone?” 

“ Oh, yes, dear Nancy,” said Ellen, weeping, — “ if you would 
only take care of your dear grandmother. She is left alone now. 
If you would only take care of her, and read your Bible, and be 
good, Nancy, — oh, Nancy, Nancy! do, do!” 

They kissed each other, and Nancy went away fairly crying. 

Mrs. Marshman’s own woman, a steady excellent person, had 
come in the carriage for Ellen. And the next morning early after 
breakfast, when every thing else was ready, she went into Mr. 
Humphreys’ study to bid the last dreaded good-by. She thought 
her obedience was costing her dear. 

It was nearly a silent parting. ' He held her a long time in his 
arms; and there Ellen bitterly thought her place ought to be. 
“ What have I to do to seek new relations ?” she said to herself. 
But she was speechless ; till gently relaxing his hold he tenderly 
smoothed back her disordered hair, and kissing her, said a very 
few grave words of blessing and counsel. Ellen gathered all her 
strength together then, for she had something that must be spoken. 

“ Sir,” said she, falling on her knees before him and looking up 
in his face, — “this don’t alter — you do not take back what you 
said, do you?” 

“ What that I said, my child?” 

“That,” said Ellen, hiding her face in her hands on his knee, 
and scarce able to speak with great effort, — “ that which you said 
when I first came — that which you said about ” 

“ About what, my dear child?” 


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“ My going away don’t change any thing, does it, sir? Mayn’t 
I come back, if ever I can ?” 

He raised her up and drew her close to his bosom again. 

“ My dear little daughter,” said he, “ you cannot be so glad to 
come back as my arms and my heart will be to receive you. I 
scarce dare hope to see that day, but all in this house is yours, dear 
Ellen, as well when in Scotland as here. I take back nothing, my 
daughter. Nothing is changed.” 



A word or two more of affection and blessing, which Ellen was 
utterly unable to answer in any way, — and she went to the car- 
riage ; with one drop of cordial in her heart, that she fed upon a 
long while. “ He called me his daughter !— he never said that be- 
fore since Alice died ! Oh, so I will be as long as I live, if I find 
fifty new relations. But what good will a daughter three thousand 
miles off do him !” 


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498 


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CHAPTER XLVII. 

Speed. Item. She is proud. 

Laun. Out with that; — it was Eve’s legacy, and cannot be ta’en from her. 

Shakspeare. 

The voyage was peaceful and prosperous ; in due time the whole 
party found themselves safe in London. Ever since they set out 
Ellen had been constantly gaining on Mrs. Gillespie’s good will ; 
the major hardly saw her but she had something to say about that 
“ best-bred child in the world.” “ Best-hearted too, I think,” said 
the major; and even Mrs. Gillespie owned that there was some- 
thing more than good-breeding in Ellen’s politeness. She had good 
trial of it ; Mrs. Gillespie was much longer ailing than any of the 
party ; and when Ellen got well, it was her great pleasure to de- 
vote herself to the service of the only member of the Marshman 
family now within her reach. She could never do too much. She 
watched by her, read to her, was quick to see and perform all the 
little offices of attention and kindness where a servant’s hand is 
not so acceptable ; and withal never was in the way nor put herself 
forward. Mrs. Gillespie’s own daughter was much less helpful. 
Both she and William, however, had long since forgotten the old 
grudge, and treated Ellen as well as they did any body ; rather 
better. Major Gillespie was attentive and kind as possible to the 
gentle, well-behaved little body that was always at his wife’s pil- 
low ; and even Lester, the maid, told one of her friends “ she was 
such a sweet little lady that it was a pleasure and gratification to 
do any thing for her.” Lester acted this out; and in her kindly 
disposition Ellen found very substantial comfort and benefit 
throughout the voyage. 

Mrs. Gillespie told her husband she should be rejoiced if it turned 
out that they might keep Ellen with them and carry her back to 
America ; she only wished it were not for Mr. Humphreys but her- 
self. As their destination was not now Scotland but Paris, it was 
proposed to write to Ellen’s friends to ascertain whether any change 
had occurred, or whether they still wished to receive her. This 
however was rendered unnecessary. They were scarcely established 
in their hotel, when a gentleman from Edinburgh, an intimate 
friend of the Yentnor family, and whom Ellen herself had more 
than once met there, came to see them. Mrs. Gillespie bethought 
herself to make inquiries of him. 

“ Do you happen to know a family of Lindsays, in Georges- street, 
Mr. Dundas ?” 

“ Lindsays ? yes, perfectly well. Do you know them ?” 


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“ No ; but I am very much interested in one of the family. Is 
the old lady living?” 

“ Yes, certainly ; — not very old either — not above sixty, or sixty- 
five; and as hale and alert as at forty. A very fine old lady.” 

“ A large family ?” 

“ Oh, no ; Mr. Lindsay is a widower this some years, with no 
children ; and there is a widowed daughter lately come home, — 
Lady Keith; — that’s all.” 

“ Mr. Lindsay — that is the son?” 

“Yes. You would like them. They are excellent people — ex- 
cellent family — wealthy — beautiful country seat on the south bank 
of the Tyne, some miles out of Edinburgh ; I was down there two 
weeks ago ; — entertain most handsomely and agreeably, two things 
that do not always go together. You meet a pleasanter circle no- 
where than at Lindsay’s.” 

“ And that is the whole family ?” said Mrs. Gillespie. 

“That is all. There were two daughters married to America 
some dozen or so years ago. Mrs. Lindsay took it very hard, I 
believe, but she bore up, and bears up now, as if misfortune had 
never crossed her path ; though the death of Mr. Lindsay’s wife 
and son was another great blow. I don’t believe there is a grey 
hair on her head at this moment. There is some peculiarity about 
them perhaps, — some pride too ; — but that is an amiable weak- 
ness,” he added laughing, as he rose to go; — “Mrs. Gillespie, I 
am sure will not find fault with them for it.” 

“ That’s an insinuation, Mr. Dundas ; but look here, what I am 
bringing to Mrs. Lindsay in the shape of a grand- daughter.” 

“ What, my old acquaintance, Miss Ellen ! — is it possible ! — My 
dear madam, if you had such a treasure for sale, they would pour 
half their fortune into your lap to purchase it, and the other half 
at her feet.” 

“ I would not take it, Mr. Dundas.” 

“ It would be no mean price, I assure you, in itself, however it 
might be comparatively. I give Miss Ellen joy.” 

Miss Ellen took none of his giving. 

“ Ah, Ellen, my dear,” said Mrs. Gillespie when he was gone, — 
“ we shall never have you back in America again. I give up all 
hopes of it. Why do you look so solemn, my love ? You are a 
strange child ; most girls would be delighted at such a prospect 
opening before them.” 

“ You forget what I leave, Mrs. Gillespie.” 

“ So will you, my love, in a few days ; though I love you for re- 
membering so well those that have been kind to you. But you 
don’t realize yet what is before you.” 

“Why you’ll have a good time, Ellen,” said Marianne; — “I 
wonder you are not out of your wits with joy. I should be.” 


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“ You may as well make over the Brownie to me, Ellen,” said 
William ; — “ I expect you’ll never want him again.” 

“ I cannot, you know, William ; I lent him to Ellen Chauncey.” 

“ Lent him ! — that’s a good one. For how long ?” 

Ellen smiled, though sighing inwardly to see how very much 
narrowed was her prospect of ever mounting him again. She did 
not care to explain herself to those around her. Still, at the very 
bottom of her heart lay two thoughts, in which her hope refuged 
itself. One was a peculiar assurance that whatever her brother 
pleased, nothing could hinder him. from accomplishing ; the other, 
a like confidence that it would not please him to leave his little sis- 
ter unlooked-after. But all began to grow misty, and it seemed now 
as if Scotland must henceforth be the limit of her horizon. 

Leaving their children at a relation’s house, Major and Mrs. 
Gillespie accompanied her to the north. They travelled post, 
and arriving in the evening at Edinburgh, put up at a hotel in 
Prince’ s-street. It was agreed that Ellen should not seek her new 
home till the morrow ; she should eat one more supper and breakfast 
with her old friends, and have a night’s rest first. She was very 
glad of it. The major and Mrs. Gillespie were enchanted with the 
noble view from their parlour windows ; while they were eagerly 
conversing together, Ellen sat alone at the other window, looking 
out upon the curious Old Town. There was all the fascination of 
novelty and beauty about that singular picturesque mass of build- 
ings, in its sober colouring, growing more sober as the twilight fell ; 
and just before outlines were lost in the dusk, lights began feebly 
to twinkle here and there, and grew brighter and more as the night 
came on, till their brilliant multitude were all that could be seen 
where the curious jumble of chimneys and house-tops and crooked 
ways had shown a little before. Ellen sat watching this lighting 
up of the Old Town, feeling strangely that she was in the midst 
of new scenes indeed, entering upon a new stage of life ; and 
having some difficulty to persuade herself that she was really 
Ellen Montgomery. The scene of extreme beauty before her seemed 
rather to increase the confusion ana sadness of her mind. Happily, 
joyfully, Ellen remembered, as she sat gazing over the darkening 
city and its brightening lights, that there was One near her who 
could not change ; that Scotland was no remove from him : that 
his providence as well as his heaven was over her there ; that there, 
not less than in America, she was his child. She rejoiced, as she 
sat in her dusky window, over his words of assurance, “I am the 
good shepherd, and know my sheep, and am known of mine and 
she looked up into the clear sky (that at least was home-like), in 
tearful thankfulness, and with earnest prayer that she might be 
kept from evil. Ellen guessed she might have special need to offer 
that prayer. And as again her eye wandered over the singular 


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501 


bright spectacle that kept reminding her she was a stranger in a 
strange place, her heart joyfully leaned upon another loved sentence, 
— “ This God is our God for ever and ever; he will be our guide 
even unto death.” 

She was called from her window to supper. 

“ Why how well you look,” said Mrs. Gillespie; “I expected 
you would have been half tired to death. Doesn’t she look 
well?” 

“As if she was neither tired, hungry, nor sleepy,” said Major 
Gillespie kindly ; — “ and yet she must be all three.” 

Ellen was all three. But she had the rest of a quiet mind. 

In the same quiet mind, a little fluttered and anxious now, she 
set out in the post-chaise the next morning with her kind friends 
to No. — Georges-street. It was their intention, after leaving her, 
to go straight on to England. They were in a hurry to be there ; 
and Mrs. Gillespie judged that the presence of a stranger at the 
meeting between Ellen and her relations would be desired by none 
of the parties. But when they reached the house they found the 
family were not at home; they were in the country — at their place 
on the Tyne. The direction was obtained, and the horses’ heads 
turned that way. After a drive of some length, through what 
kind of a country Ellen could hardly have told, they arrived at 
the place. 

It was beautifully situated ; and through well-kept grounds they 
drove up to a large, rather old-fashioned, substantial-looking house. 
“The ladies were at home;” and that ascertained, Ellen took a 
kind leave of Mrs. Gillespie, shook hands with the major at the 
door, and was left alone for the second time in her life, to make 
her acquaintance with new and untried friends. She stood for one 
second looking after the retreating carriage, — one swift thought 
went to her adopted father and brother faraway, — one to her Friend 
in heaven, — and Ellen quietly turned to the servant and asked for 
Mrs. Lindsay. 

She was shown into a large room where nobody was, and sat 
down with a beating heart while the servant went up stairs ; looking 
with a strange feeling upon what was to be her future home. The 
house was handsome, comfortably, luxuriously furnished ; but 
without any attempt at display. Things rather old-fashioned than 
otherwise ; plain, even homely in some instances ; yet evidently 
there was no sparing of money in any line of use or comfort ; nor 
were reading and writing, painting and music, strangers there. 
Unconsciously acting upon her brother’s principle of judging of 
people from their works, Ellen, from what she saw gathered around 
her, formed a favourable opinion of her relations ; without thinking 
of it, for indeed she was thinking of something else. 

A lady presently entered, and said that Mrs. Lindsay was not 


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very well. Seeing Ellen’s very hesitating look, she added, “shall 
I carry her any message for you ?” 

This lady was well-looking and well-dressed ; but somehow there 
was something in her face or manner that encouraged Ellen to an 
explanation ; she could make none. She silently gave her her 
father’s letter, with which the lady left the room. 

In a minute or two she returned and said her mother would see 
Ellen up stairs, and asked her to come with her. This then must 
be Lady Keith ! — but no sign of recognition ? Ellen wondered, 
as her trembling feet carried her up stairs, and to the door of a 
room where the lady motioned her to enter ; she did not follow 
herself. 

A large pleasant dressing-room ; but Ellen saw nothing but the 
dignified figure and searching glance of a lady in black, standing 
in the middle of the floor. At the look which instantly followed 
her entering, however, Ellen sprang forward, and was received in 
arms that folded her as fondly and as closely as ever those of her 
own mother had done. Without releasing her from their clasp, 
Mrs. Lindsay presently sat down ; and placing Ellen on her lap, 
and for a long time without speaking a word, she overwhelmed her 
with caresses, — caresses often interrupted with passionate bursts 
of tears. Ellen herself cried heartily for company, though Mrs. 
Lindsay little guessed why. Along with the joy and tenderness 
arising from the finding a relation that so much loved and valued 
her, and along with the sympathy that entered into Mrs. Lindsay’s 
thoughts, there mixed other feelings. She began to know, as if 
by instinct, what kind of a person her grandmother was. The 
clasp of the arms that were about her said as plainly as possible, 
“ I will never let you go !” Ellen felt it ; she did not know in her 
confusion whether she was most glad or most sorry ; and this un- 
certainty mightily helped the flow of her tears. 

When this scene had lasted some time Mrs. Lindsay began with 
the utmost tenderness to take off" Ellen’s gloves, her cape (her 
bonnet had been hastily thrown off long before), and smoothing 
back her hair, and taking the fair little face in both her hands, she 
looked at it and pressed it to her own, as indeed something most 
dearly prized and valued. Then saying, “ I must lie down ; come 
in here, love,” — she led her into the next room, locked the door, 
made Ellen stretch herself on the bed ; and placing herself beside 
her drew her close to her bosom again, murmuring, “ My own 
child — my precious child — my Ellen — my own darling — why did 
you stay away so long from me? — tell me ?” 

It was necessary to tell ; and this could not be done without re- 
vealing Miss Fortune’s disgraceful conduct. Ellen was sorry for 
that ; she knew her mother’s American match had been unpopular 
with her friends ; and now what notions this must give them of 


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503 


one at least of the near connections to whom it had introduced 
her. She winced under what might be her grandmother’s 
thoughts. Mrs. Lindsay heard her in absolute silence, and made 
no comment ; and at the end again kissed her lips and cheeks, 
embracing her, Ellen felt , as a recovered treasure that would not 
be parted with. She was not satisfied till she had drawn Ellen’s 
head fairly to rest on her breast, and then her caressing hand often 
touched her cheek, or smoothed back her hair, softly now and then 
asking slight questions about her voyage and journey; till ex- 
hausted from excitement more than fatigue Ellen fell asleep. 

Her grandmother was beside her when she awoke, and busied 
herself with evident delight in helping her to get off her travelling 
clothes and put on others ; and then she took her down stairs and 
presented her to her aunt. 

Lady Keith had not been at home, nor in Scotland, at the time 
the letters passed between Mrs. Montgomery and her mother ; and 
the result of that correspondence, respecting Ellen, had been 
known to no one except Mrs. Lindsay and her son. They had 
long given her up ; the rather as they had seen in the papers the 
name of Captain Montgomery among those lost in the ill-fated 
Due d’ Orleans. Lady Keith therefore had no suspicion who Ellen 
might be. She received her affectionately, but Ellen did not get 
rid of her first impression. 

Her uncle she did not see until late in the day, when he came 
home. The evening was extremely fair, and having obtained per- 
mission, Ellen wandered out into the shrubbery ; glad to be alone, 
and glad for a moment to exchange new faces for old ; the flowers 
were old friends to her, and never had looked more friendly than 
then. New and old both were there. Ellen went on softly from 
flower-bed to flower-bed, soothed and rested, stopping here to smell 
one, or there to gaze at some old favourite or new beauty, thinking 
curious thoughts of the past and the future, and through it all 
taking a quiet lesson from the flowers ; — when a servant came after 
her with a request from Mrs. Lindsay that she would return to the 
house. Ellen hurried in ; she guessed for what, and was sure as 
soon as she opened the door and saw the figure of a gentleman 
sitting before Mrs. Lindsay. Ellen remembered well she was sent 
to her uncle as well as her grandmother, and she came forward 
with a beating heart to Mrs. Lindsay’s outstretched hand, which 
presented her to this other ruler of her destiny. He was very 
different from Lady Keith, — her anxious glance saw that at once— 
more like his mother. A man not far from fifty years old ; fine- 
looking and stately like her. Ellen was not left long in suspense ; 
his look instantly softened as his mother’s had done ; he drew her 
to his arms with great affection, and evidently with very great 
pleasure ; then held her off for a moment while he looked at her 


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changing colour and downcast eye, and folded her close in his arms 
again, from which he seemed hardly willing to let her go, whisper- 
ing as he kissed her, “ you are my own child now, — you are my 
little daughter, — do you know that, Ellen? I am your father 
henceforth ; — you belong to me entirely, and I belong to you ; — my 
own little daughter !” 

“ I wonder how many times one maybe adopted,” thought Ellen 
that evening ; — “ but to be sure, my father and my mother have 
quite given me up here, — that makes a difference ; they had a 
right to give me away if they pleased. I suppose I do belong to 
my uncle and grandmother in good earnest, and I cannot help my- 
self. Well ! but Mr. Humphreys seems a great deal more like my 
father than my uncle Lindsay. I cannot help that — but how they 
would be vexed if they knew it?” 

That was profoundly true ! 

Ellen was in a few days the dear pet and darling of the whole 
household, without exception and almost without limit. At first, 
for a day or two, there was a little lurking doubt, a little anxiety, 
a constant watch, on the part of all her friends, whether they were 
not going to find something in their newly acquired treasure to 
disappoint them ; whether it could be that there was nothing be- 
hind to belie tbe first promise. Less keen observers, however, 
could not have failed to see very soon that there was no disap- 
pointment to be looked for ; Ellen was just what she seemed, with- 
out the shadow of a cloak in any thing. Doubts vanished ; and 
Ellen had not been three days in the house when she was taken 
home to two hearts at least in unbounded love and tenderness. 
When Mr. Lindsay was present he was not satisfied without hav- 
ing Ellen in his arms or close beside him ; and if not there she was 
at the side of her grandmother. 

There was nothing, however, in the character of this fondness, 
great as it was, that would have inclined any child to presume 
upon it. Ellen was least of all likely to try ; but if her will, by 
any chance, had run counter to theirs, she would have found it 
impossible to maintain her ground. She understood this from the 
first with her grandmother ; and in one or two trifles since had 
been more and more confirmed in the feeling that they would do 
with her and make of her precisely what they pleased, without the 
smallest regard to her fancy. If it jumped with theirs, very well ; 
if not, it must yield. In one matter Ellen had been roused to 
plead very hard, and even with tears, to have her wish, which she 
verily thought she ought to have had. Mrs. Lindsay smiled and 
kissed her, and went on with the utmost coolness in what she was 
doing, which she carried through, without in the least regarding 
Ellen’s distress or showing the slightest discomposure ; and the 
same thing was repeated every day, till Ellen got used to it. Her 


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505 


uncle she had never seen tried ; hut she knew it would be the 
same with him. When Mr. Lindsay clasped her to his bosom 
Ellen felt it was as his own ; his eye always seemed to repeat, “ my 
own little daughter;” and in his whole manner love was mingled 
with as much authority. Perhaps Ellen did not like them much 
the worse for this, as she had no sort of disposition to displease 
them in any thing ; but it gave rise to sundry thoughts however, 
which she kept to herself ; thoughts that went both to the future 
and the past. 

Lady Keith, it may be, had less heart to give than her mother 
and brother, but pride took up the matter instead ; and according 
to her measure Ellen held with her the same place she held with 
Mr. and Mrs. Lindsay ; being the great delight and darling of all 
three and with all three, seemingly, the great object in life. 

A few days after her arrival, a week or more, she underwent one 
evening a kind of catechising from her aunt, as to her former man- 
ner of life ; — where she had been and with whom since her mother 
left her ; what she had been doing ; whether she had been to school, 
and how her time was spent at home, &c., &c. No comments what- 
ever were made on her answers, but a something in her aunt’s face 
and manner induced Ellen to make her replies as brief and to give 
her as little information in them as she could. She did not feel 
inclined to enlarge upon any thing, or to go at all further than the 
questions obliged her ; and Lady Keith ended without having more 
than a very general notion of Ellen’s way of life for three or four 
years past. This conversation was repeated to her grandmother 
and uncle. 

“ To think,” said the latter the next morning at breakfast, — 
“to think that the backwoods of America should have turned us 
out such a little specimen of ” 

“Of what, uncle?” said Ellen, laughing. 

“ Ah, I shall not tell you that,” said he. 

“ But it is extraordinary,” said Lady Keith, — “ how after living 
among a parcel of thick-headed and thicker-tongued Yankees she 
could come out and speak pure English in a clear voice ; — it is an 
enigma to me.” 

“Take care, Catherine,” said Mr. Lindsay laughing, — “you are 
touching Ellen’s nationality; — look here,” said he, drawing his 
fingers down her cheek. 

“ She must learn to have no nationality but yours,” said Lady 
Keith somewhat shortly. 

Ellen’s lips were open, but she spoke not. 

“ It is well you have come out from the Americans, you see, 
Ellen,” pursued Mr. Lindsay ; — “ your aunt does not like them.” 

“ But why, sir?” 

“Why,” said he gravely, — “don’t you know that they are a 
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parcel of rebels who have broken loose from all loyalty and fealty, 
that no good Briton has any business to like?” 

“ You are not in earnest, uncle?” 

“ You are, I see,” said he, looking amused. “ Are you one of 
those that make a saint of George Washington?” 

“No,” said Ellen, — “ I think he was a great deal better than 
some saints. But I don’t think the* Americans were rebels.” 

‘•You are a little rebel yourself. Do you mean to say you think 
the Americans were right?” 

“ Do you mean to say you think they were wrong, uncle ?” 

“ I assure you,” said he, “ if I had been in the English army I 
would have fought them with all my heart.” 

“ And if I had been in the American army I would have fought 
yon with all my heart, uncle Lindsay.” 

“ Come, come,” said he laughing ; — “ you fight ! you don’t look 
as if you would do battle with a good-sized mosquito.” 

“ Ah, but I mean if I had been a man,” said Ellen. 

“ You had better put in that qualification. After all, I am in- 
clined to think it may be as well for you on the whole that, we did 
not meet. I don’t know but we might have had a pretty stiff en- 
counter, though.” 

“ A good cause is stronger than a bad one, uncle.” 

“But Ellen, — these Americans forfeited entirely the character 
of good friends to England and good subjects to King George.” 

“ Yes, but it was King George’s fault, uncle ; he and the Eng- 
lish forfeited their characters first.” 

“I declare,” said Mr. Lindsay laughing, “if your sword had 
been as stout as your tongue, I don’t know how I might have come 
off in that same encounter.” 

“I hope Ellen will get rid of these strange notions about the 
Americans,” said Lady Keith discontentedly. 

“ I hope not, aunt Keith,” said Ellen. 

“ Where did you get them ?” said Mr. Lindsay. 

“What, sir?” 

“ These notions.” 

“ In reading, sir ; reading different books; — and talking.” 

“ Beading! — So you did read in the backwoods?” 

“ Sir !” said Ellen, with a look of surprise. 

“ What have you read on this subject?” 

“ Two lives of Washington, and some in the Annual Begister, 
and part of Graham’s United States; and one or two other little 
things.” 

“ But those gave you only one side, Ellen ; you should read the 
English account of the matter.” 

# “ So I did, sir; the Annual Begister gave me both sides ; the 
bills and messages were enough.” 


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“ What Annual Register?” 

“I don’t know, sir; — it is English; — written by Burke, I 
believe.” 

“ Upon my word ! And what else have you read ?” 

“ I think that’s all about America,” said Ellen. 

“ No, but about other things?” 

“ Oh, I don’t know, sir,” said Ellen smiling; — “a great many 
books; — I can’t tell them all.” 

“ Did you spend all your time over your books?” 

“ A good deal, sir, lately ; — not so much before.” 

“ How was that?” 

“ I couldn’t, sir. I had a great many other things to do.” 

“ What else had you to do ?” 

“Different things,” said Ellen, hesitating from the remem- 
brance of her aunt’s manner the night before. 

“ Come, come ! answer me.” 

“ I had to sweep and dust,” said Ellen colouring, — “ and set 
tables, — and wash and wipe dishes, — and churn, — and spin, — 
and ” 

Ellen heard Lady Keith’s look in her, “ Could you have con- 
ceived it !” 

“ What shall we do with her?” said Mrs. Lindsay; — “ send her 
to school or keep her at home?” 

“ Have you never been to school, Ellen?” 

“No, sir; except for a very little while, more than three years 
ago.” 

“ Would you like it?” 

“ I would a great deal rather study at home, sir, — if you will let 
me.” 

“ What do you know now?” 

“ Oh, I can’t tell, sir,” said Ellen ; — “ I don’t know any thing 
very well, — unless ” 

“Unless what?” said her uncle laughing; — “come! now for 
your accomplishments.” 

“ I had rather not say what I was going to, uncle ; please don’t 
ask me.” 

“Yes, yes,” said he; — “I shan’t let you off. Unless 
what ?” 

“ I was going to say, unless riding,” said Ellen colouring. 

“Riding! — And pray how did you learn to ride? Catch a 
horse by the mane and mount him by the fence and canter off 
bare-backed? was that it? eh ?” 

“ Not exactly, sir,” said Ellen laughing. 

“ Well, but about your other accomplishments. You do not 
know any thing of French, I suppose?” 

“ Yes I do, sir.” 


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“ Where did you get that?” 

“ An old Swiss lady in the mountains taught me.” 

“ Country riding and Swiss French,” muttered her uncle. 

“ Did she teach you to speak it?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

Mr. Lindsay and his mother exchanged glances, which Ellen 
interpreted, “Worse and worse.” 

“ One thing at least can be mended,” observed Mr. Lindsay. 
“ She shall go to De Courcy’s riding-school as soon as we get to 
Edinburgh.” 

“ Indeed, uncle, I don’t think that will be necessary.” 

“ Who taught you to ride, Ellen ?” asked Lady Keith. 

“ My brother.” 

“ Humph! — I fancy a few lessons will do you no harm,” she 
remarked. 

Ellen coloured and was silent. 

“ You know nothing of music, of course?” 

“ I cannot play, uncle.” 

“ Can you sing?” 

“ I can sing hymns.” 

“ Sing hymns ! That’s the only fault I find with you, Ellen, — 
you are too sober. I should like to see you a little more gay, — 
like other children.” 

11 But uncle, I am not unhappy because I am sober.” 

cl But I am,” said he. “ I do not know precisely what I shall 
do with you ; I must do something !” 

“ Can you sing nothing but hymns?” asked Lady Keith. 

“ Yes, ma’am,” said Ellen, with some humour twinkling about 
her eyes and mouth, — “ I can sing 1 Hail Columbia !’ ” 

“ Absurd !” said Lady Keith. 

“ Why, Ellen,” said her uncle laughing, — “ I did not know you 
could be so stubborn ; I thought you were made up of gentleness 
and mildness. Let me have a good look at you, — there’s not much 
stubbornness in those eyes,” he said fondly. 

u I hope you will never salute my ears with your American 
ditty,” said Lady Keith. 

“ Tut, tut,” said Mr. Lindsay, “ she shall sing what she pleases, 
and the more the better.” 

“ She has a very sweet voice, 1 ’ said her grandmother. 

“ Yes, in speaking, I know ; I have not heard it tried otherwise ; 
and very nice English it turns out. Where did you get your Eng- 
lish, Ellen?” 

“ From my brother,” said Ellen, with a smile of pleasure. 

Mr. Lindsay’s brow rather clouded. 

“ Whom do you mean by that?” 

“ The brother of the lady that was so kind to me.” Ellen dis- 


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in 

liked to speak the loved names in the hearing of ears to which she 
knew they would be unlovely. 

“ How was she so kind to you?” 

“ Oh, sir ! — in every thing — I cannot tell you ; — she was my 
friend when I had only one beside ; she did every thing for me.” 

“ And who was the other friend? your aunt?” 

“ No, sir.” 

“ This brother?” 

“ No, sir ; that was before I knew him.” 

“ Who then ?” 

“ His name was Mr. Van Brunt.” 

“ Van Brunt ! — Humph ! — And what was he?” 

“ He was a farmer, sir.” 

“ A Dutch farmer, eh ? how came you to have any thin" to do 
with him I” 

“He managed my aunt’s farm, and was a great deal in the 
house.” 

“ He was ! And what makes you call this other your brother 
j| “ His sister called me her sister — and that makes me his.” 

“ It is very absurd,” said Lady Keith, “when they are nothing 
at all to her, and ought not to be.” 

“It seems then you did not find a friend in your aunt, Ellen? 
—eh?” 

“ I don’t think she loved me much,” said Ellen in a low 
voice. 

“ I am very glad we are clear of obligation on her score,” said 
Mrs. Lindsay. 

“ Obligation ! — And so you had nothing else to depend on, Ellen, 
but this man — this Van something — this Dutchman? what did he 
do for you ?” 

“ A great deal, sir — Ellen would have said more, but a feeling 
in her throat stopped her. 

“ Now just hear that, will you ?” said Lady Keith. “ Just think 
of her in that farm house, with that sweeping and dusting woman 
and a Dutch farmer, for these three years !” 

“No,” said Ellen, — “not all the time; this last year I have 
been, ” 

“ Where, Ellen ?” 

“ At the other house, sir.” 

“ What house is that?” 

“ Where that lady and gentleman lived that were my best 
friends.” 

* Well it’s all very well,” said Lady Keith, — “ but it is past 
now; it is all over; you need not think of them any more. We 
will find you better friends than any of these Dutch Brunters or 
Grunters.” 


43 * 


510 


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; 


“ Oh, aunt Keith !” said Ellen, — •“ if you knew” — But she hurst 
into tears. 

“ Come, come,” said Mr. Lindsay, taking her into his arms, — “ I 
will not have that. Hush, my daughter. What is the matter, J 
Ellen?” 

But Ellen had with some difficulty contained herself two or I 
three times before in the course of the conversation, and she wept j 
now rather violently. 

“ What is the matter, Ellen ?” 

“Because,” sobbed Ellen, thoroughly roused, — “I love them 1 
dearly ! and I ought to love them with all my heart. I cannot a 
forget them, and never shall; and I can never have better friends J 
— never ! — it’s impossible — oh, it’s impossible.” 

Mr. Lindsay said nothing at first except to soothe her ; but when j 
she had wept herself into quietness upon his breast, he whispered, J 

“ It is right to love these people if they were kind to you, but * 
as your aunt says, that is past. It is not necessary to go back to j 
it. Forget that you were American, Ellen, — you belong tome;'| 
your name is not Montgomery any more, — it is Lindsay ; — and I 
will not have you call me ‘ uncle’ — I am your father ; — you are my 
own little daughter, and must do precisely what I tell you. Do I 
you understand me ?” 

He would have a “ yes” from her, and then added, “ Go and j 
get yourself ready and I will take you with me to Edinburgh.” 

Ellen’s tears had been like to burst forth again at his words^. 
with great effort she controlled herself and obeyed him. 

“ I shall do precisely what he tells me of course,” she said to 1 
herself as she went to get ready ; — “ but there are some things he : 
cannot command ; nor I neither ; — I am glad of that ! Forget 
indeed !” 

She could not help loving her uncle ; for the lips that kissect 
her were very kind as well as very peremptory ; and if the hand 
that pressed her cheek was, as she felt it was, the hand of power, 
its touch was also exceeding fond. And as she was no mor^ 
inclined to despite his will than he to permit it, the harmony >q 
between them was perfect and unbroken. 



“ Bear a lily in thy hand : 

Gates of brass cannot withstand 
One touch of that mighty wand.” 

Page 511. j 















































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O'! 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 
jj 

Bear a lily in thy hand : 

Gates of brass cannot withstand 

One touch of that magic wand. 

Longfellow. 

h ' Mr. Lindsay had some reason that morning to wish that Ellen 
would look merrier ; it was a very sober little face he saw by his 
side as the carriage rolled smoothly on with them toward Edin- 
burgh ; almost pale in its sadness. He lavished the tenderest 
kindness upon her, and without going back by so much as a hint 
to the subjects of the morning, he exerted himself to direct her 
attention to the various objects of note and interest they were 

ssing. The day was fine, and the country, also the carriage and 
- is horses ; Ellen was dearly fond of driving ; and long before 
they reached the city Mr. Lindsay had the satisfaction of seeing 
her smile break again, her eye brighten, and her happy attention 
fixing- on the things he pointed out to her, and many others that 
she found for herself on the way, — his horses first of all. Mr. 
Lindsay might relax his efforts and look on with secret triumph ; 
Ellen was in the full train of delighted observation. 

“ You are easily pleased, Ellen,” he said, in answer to one of 
her simple remarks of admiration. 

“ I have a great deal to please me,” said Ellen. 

“ What would you like to see in Edinburgh ?” 

. “ I don’t know, sir ; any thing you please.” 

“ Then I will show you a little of the city in the first place.” 

They drove through the streets of Edinburgh, both the Old and 
the New Town, in various directions; Mr. Lindsay extremely 
pleased to see that Ellen was so, and much amused at the curiosity 
shown in her questions, which however were by no means as free 
and frequent as they might have been had John Humphreys filled 
her uncle’s place. 

“ What large building is that over there?” said Ellen. 

“ That? — that is Holyrood House.” 

“ Holyrood ! — I have heard of that before ; — isn’t that where 
Queen Mary’s rooms are? where Rizzio was killed?” 

“ Yes ; would you like to see them ?” 

“ Oh, very much !” 

“ Drive to the Abbey — So you have read Scottish history as well 
as American, Ellen?” 

“ Not very much, sir ; only the Tales of a Grandfather yet. But 


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what made me say that, — I have read an account of Holyro 
House somewhere. Uncle ” 

“ Ellen!” 

“ I beg your pardon, sir I forgot it seems strange to me, 
said Ellen, looking distressed. 

“ It must not'seem strange to you, my daughter ; what were you 
going to say ?’ ’ 

“ I don’t know, sir, — Oh, I was going to ask if the silver cross 
is here now, to be seen ?’ ’ 

“ What silver cross?” 

“ That one from which the Abbey was named, — the silver rood 
that was given, they pretended, to — I forget now what king, — ” 

“ David First, the founder of the Abbey ? No, it is not here, 
Ellen ; David the Second lost it to the English. But why do you 
say pretended , Ellen ? It was a very real affair ; kept in England 
for a long time with great veneration.” 

“ Oh, yes, sir ; I know the cross was real ; — I mean, it was pre- 
tended that an angel gave it to King David when he was hunting 
here.” 

“Well, how can you tell but that was so? King David was 
made a saint, you know.” 

“Oh, sir,” said Ellen laughing, “I know better than that; I 
know it was only a monkish trick.” 

“ Monkish trick ! what do you mean ? the giving of the cross, 
or the making the king a saint?” 

“ Both, sir,” said Ellen, still smiling. 

“At that rate,” said Mr. Lindsay, much amused, “if you are 
such a skeptic, you will take no comfort in any thing at the Abbey, 
— you will not believe any thing is genuine.” 

“ I will believe what you tell me, sir.” 

“Will you? I must be careful what I say to you then, or I 
may run the risk of losing my own credit.” 

Mr. Lindsay spoke this half jestingly, half in earnest. They 
went over the palace. 

“Is this very old, sir?” asked Ellen. 

“ Not very ; it has been burnt and demolished and rebuilt, till 
nothing is left of the old Abbey of King David but the ruins of 
the chapel, which you shall see presently. The oldest part of the 
House is that we are going to see now, built by James Fifth, Mary’s 
father, where her rooms are.” 

At these rooms Ellen looked with intense interest. She pored 
over the old furniture, the needle-work of which she was told was 
at least in part the work of the beautiful Queen’s own fingers; 
gazed at the stains in the floor of the bed-chamber, said to be those 
of Rizzio’s blood ; meditated over the trap-door in the passage, by 
which the conspirators had come up ; and finally sat down in the 


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513 


room and tried to realize the scene which had once been acted there. 
She tried to imagine the poor Queen and her attendant and her 
favourite Rizzio sitting there at supper, and how that door, that 
very door, — had opened, and Ruthven’s ghastly figure, pale and 
weak from illness, presented itself, and then others ; the alarm of 
the moment ; how Rizzio knew they were come for him and fled to 
the Queen for protection ; how she was withheld from giving it, 
and the unhappy man pulled away from her and stabbed with a 
great many wounds before her face ; and there, there ! — no doubt, 
— his blood fell ! 

“ You are tired ; — this doesn’t please you much,” said Mr. Lind- 
say, noticing her grave look. 

“Oh, it pleases me very much?” said Ellen, starting up; — “I 
do not wonder she swore vengeance.” 

“Who?” said Mr. Lindsay laughing. 

“ Queen Mary, sir.” 

“ Were you thinking of her all this while? I am glad of it. I 
spoke to you once without getting a word. I was afraid this was 
not amusing enough to detain your thoughts.” 

“ Oh, yes it was,” said Ellen; — “I have been trying to think 
about all that. I like to look at old things very much.” 

“ Perhaps you would like to see the Regalia.” 

“ The what, sir?” 

“ The Royal things — the old diadem and sceptre, &c., of the 
Scottish kings. Well come,” said he, as he read the answer in 
Ellen’s face, — “ we will go ; but first let us see the old chapel.” 

With this Ellen was wonderfully pleased. This was much older 
still than Queen Mary’s rooms. Ellen admired the wild melan- 
choly look of the gothic pillars and arches springing from the green 
turf, the large carved window empty of glass, the broken walls ; — 
and looking up to the blue sky, she tried to imagine the time when 
the gothic roof closed overhead, and music sounded through the 
arches, and trains of stoled monks paced through them, where 
now the very pavement was not. Strange it seemed, and hard, to 
go back and realize it ; but in the midst of this, the familiar face 
of the sky set Ellen’s thoughts off upon anew track, and suddenly 
they were at home , — on the lawn before the parsonage. The 
monks and the abbey were forgotten ; she silently gave her hand 
to her uncle and walked with him to the carriage. 

Arrived at the Crown room, Ellen fell into another fit of grave 
attention ; but Mr. Lindsay, taught better, did not this time mis- 
take rapt interest for absence of mind. He answered questions 
and gave her several pieces of information, and let her take her 
own time to gaze and meditate. 

“ This beautiful sword,” said he, “was a present from Pope 
Julius Second to James Fourth.” 
hh 


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“ I don’t know any thing about the Popes,” said Ellen. 11 James 
Fourth? — I forget what kind of a king he was.” 

“ He was a very good king; — he was the one that died at 
Flodden.” 

“ Oh, and wore an iron girdle because he had fought against his 
father, — poor man !” 

“Why ‘ poor man,’ Ellen ? he was a very royal prince ; why do 
you say ‘ poor man ?’ ” 

“ Because he didn’t know any better, sir.” 

“ Didn’t know any better than what ?” 

“ Than to think an iron girdle would do him any good.” 

“ But why wouldn’t it do him any good?” 

“ Because, you know, sir, that is not the way we can have our 
sins forgiven.” 

“ What is the way ?” 

Ellen looked at him to see if he was in jest or earnest. Her 
look staggered him a little, but he repeated his question. She cast 
her eyes down and answered, 

“ Jesus Christ said, ‘ I am the way, the truth, and the life ; no 
man cometh unto the Father but by me.’ ” 

Mr. Lindsay said no more. 

“I wish that was the Bruce’s crown,” said Ellen after a while. 
“ I should like to see any thing that belonged to him.” 

“I’ll take you to the field of Bannockburn some day ; that be- 
longed to him with a vengeance. It lies over yonder.” 

“Bannockburn! will you? and Stirling castle! — Oh, how I 
should like that !” 

“ Stirling castle,” said Mr. Lindsay, smiling at Ellen’s clasped 
hands of delight, — “ what do you know of Stirling castle?” 

“ From the history, you know, sir ; and the Lord of the Isles ; — 

“Old Stirling’s towers arose in light ” 

“ Go on,” said Mr. Lindsay. 

“And twined in links of silver bright 
Her winding river lay.” 


“ That’s this same river Forth, Ellen. Do vou know anv 
more?” 

“ Oh, yes, sir.” 

“ Go on and tell me all you can remember.” 

“ All ; that would be a great deal, sir.” 

“ Go on till I tell you to stop.” 

Ellen gave him a good part of the battle, with the introduction 
to it. 

“You have a good memory, Ellen,” he said, looking pleased. 


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“ Because I like it, sir ; that makes it easy to remember. I like 
the Scots people.” 

“ Bo you !” said Mr. Lindsay much gratified ; — “ I did not 
know you liked any thing on this side of the water. Why do you 
like them?” 

“Because they never would be conquered by the English.” 

“So,” said Mr. Lindsay, half amused and half disappointed, — 
“ the long and the short of it is, you like them because they fought 
the enemies you were so eager to have a blow at.” 

“ Oh, no, sir,” said Ellen laughing, “ I do not mean that at all ; 
the French were England’s enemies too, and helped us besides, but 
I like the Scots a great deal better than the French. I like them 
because they would be free.” 

“ You have an extraordinary taste for freedom ! And pray, are 
all the American children as strong republicans as yourself?” 

“ I don’t know, sir ; I hope so.” 

“Pretty well, upon my word ! — Then I suppose even the Bruce 
cannot rival your favourite Washington in your esteem?” 

Ellen smiled. 

“Eh?” said Mr. Lindsay. 

“ I like Washington better, sir, of course ; but I like Bruce very 
much.” 

“ Why do you prefer Washington ?” 

“ I should have to think to tell you that, sir.” 

“ Very well, think, and answer me.” 

“One reason, I suppose, is because he was an American,” said 
Ellen. 

“ That is not reason enough for so reasonable a person as you 
are, Ellen ; you must try again, or give up your preference.” 

“I like Bruce, very much indeed,” said Ellen musingly, — “but 
he did what he did for himself ’ — Washington didn’t.” 

“ Humph ! — I am not quite sure as to either of your positions,” 
said Mr. Lindsay. 

“ And besides,” said Ellen, “ Bruce did one or two wrong things. 
Washington always did right.” 

“ He did, eh? What do you think of the murder of Andre?” 

“I think it was right,” said Ellen firmly. 

“ Your reasons, my little reasoner?” 

“ If it had not been right, Washington would not have done 
it.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! — so at that rate you may reconcile yourself to any 
thing that chances to be done by a favourite.” 

“ No, sir,” said Ellen, a little confused, but standing her ground, 
— “ but when a person always does right, if he happen to do 
something that I don’t know enough to understand, I have good 
reason to think it is right, even though I cannot understand it.” 


516 THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 

“ Very well ! but apply the same rule of judgment to the Bruce, 
can’t you ?” 

“ Nothing could make me think the murder of the Bed Corny n 
right, sir. Bruce didn’t think so himself.” 

“ But remember, there is a great difference in the times ; those 
were rude and uncivilized compared to these ; you must make allow- 
ance for that.” 

“ Yes, sir, I do ; but I like the civilized times best.” 

“ What do you think of this fellow over here, — what’s his name, 
— whose monument I was showing you, — Nelson !” 

“ I used to like him very much, sir.” 

“ And you do not now ?” 

“ Yes, sir, I do ; I cannot help liking him.” 

“ That is to say, you would if you could?” 

“ 1 don’t think, sir, I ought to like a man merely for being great 
unless he was good. Washington was great and good both.” 

“ Well, what is the matter with Nelson ?” said Mr. Lindsay, with 
an expression of intense amusement, — “I ‘used to think,’ as you 
say, that he was a very noble fellow.” 

“So he was, sir; but he wasn’t a good man.” 

“ Why not?” 

“ Why you know, sir, he left his wife ; and Lady Hamilton per- 
suaded him to do one or two other very dishonourable things ; it 
was a great pity !” 

“ So you will not like any great man that is not good as well. 
What is your definition of a good man, Ellen?” 

“One who always does right because it is right, no matter 
whether it is convenient or not,” said Ellen, after a little hesitation. 

“ Upon my word, you draw the line close. But opinions differ 
as to what is right ; how shall we know ?” 

“ From the Bible, sir,” said Ellen quickly, with a look that half 
amused and half abashed him. 

“And you, Ellen, — are you yourself good after this nice 
fashion?” 

“ No, sir ; but I wish to be.” 

“ I do believe that. But after all, Ellen, you might like Nelson ; 
those were only the spots in the sun.” 

“Yes, sir ; but can a man be a truly great man who is not 
master of himself?” 

“ That is an excellent remark.” 

“ It is not mine, sir,” said Ellen blushing ; — “ it was told me ; 
I did not find out all that about Nelson myself ; I did not see it 
all the first time I read his life ; I thought he was perfect.” 

“I know who / think is,” said Mr. Lindsay kissing her. 

They drove now to his house in Georges-street. Mr. Lindsay 
had some business to attend to and would leave her there for an 


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hour or two. And that their fast might not be too long unbroken, 
Mrs. Allen the housekeeper was directed to furnish them with 
some biscuits in the library, whither Mr. Lindsay led Ellen. 

She liked the looks of it very much. Plenty of books, old- 
looking comfortable furniture ; pleasant light ; all manner of 
etceteras around which rejoiced Ellen’s heart. Mr. Lindsay noticed 
her pleased glance passing from one thing to another. He placed 



her in a deep easy chair, took off her bonnet and threw it on the 
sofa, and kissing her fondly asked her if she felt at home. “ Not 
yet,” Ellen said ; but her look said it would not take long to make 
her do so. She sat enjoying her rest, and munching her biscuit 
with great appetite and satisfaction, when Mr. Lindsay poured her 
out a glass of sweet wine. 

That glass of wine looked to Ellen like an enemy marching up 

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to attack her. Because Alice and John did not drink it, she had 
always, at first without other reason, done the same ; and she was 
determined not to forsake their example now. She took no notice 
of the glass of wine, though she had ceased to see any thing else 
in the room, and went on, seemingly as before, eating her biscuit, 
though she no longer knew how they tasted. 

“ Why don’t you drink your wine, Ellen ?” 

“ I do not wish any, sir.” 

“ Don’t you like it?” 

“ I don’t know, sir ; I have never drunk any.” 

“ No ! Taste it and see.” 

“ I would rather not, sir, if you please. I don’t care for it.” 

“ Taste it, Ellen !” 

This command was not to be disobeyed. The blood rushed to 
Ellen’s temples as she just touched the glass to her lips and set it 
down again. 

“ Well ?” said Mr. Lindsay. 

“What, sir?” 

“ How do you like it?” 

“ I like it very well, sir, but I would rather not drink it.” 

“Why ?” 

Ellen coloured again at this exceedingly difficult question, and 
answered as well as she could, that she had never been accustomed 
to it, and would rather not. 

“ It is of no sort of consequence what you have been accus- 
tomed to,” said Mr. Lindsay. “ You are to drink it all, Ellen.” 

Ellen dared not disobey. When biscuits and wine were disposed 
of, Mr. Lindsay drew her close to his side, and encircling her 
fondly with his arms, said, 

“ I shall leave you now for an hour or two. and you must amuse 
yourself as you can. The bookcases are open — perhaps you can 
find something there ; or there are prints in those portfolios; or 
you can go over the house and make yourself acquainted with 
your new home. If you want any thing ask Mrs. Allen. Does it 
look pleasant to you ?” 

“ Very,” Ellen said. 

“ You are at home here, daughter; go where you will and do 
what you will. I shall not leave you long. But before I go — 
Ellen — let me hear you call me father.” 

Ellen obeyed, trembling, for it seemed to her that it was to set 
her hand and seal to the deed of gift her father and mother had 
made. But there was no retreat; it was spoken ; and Mr. Lind- 
say folding her close in his arms kissed her again and again. 

“ Never let me hear you call me any thing else, Ellen. You are 
mine own now — my own child — my own little daughter. You 
shall do just what pleases me in every thing, and let by-gones be 


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by-gones. And now lie down there and rest, daughter, you are 
trembling from head to foot ; — rest and amuse yourself in any way 
you like till I return.” 

He left the room. 

“ I have done it now !” thought Ellen, as she sat in the corner 
of the sofa where Mr. Lindsay had tenderly placed her; — “ I have 
called him my father — I am bound to obey him after this. I 
wonder what in the world they will make me do next. If he 
chooses to make me drink wine every day, I must do it ! — I cannot 
help myself. That is only a little matter. But what if they were 
to want me to do something wrong? — they might; — John never 
did — I could not have disobeyed him, possibly ! — but I could 
them, if it was necessary, — and if it is necessary, I will ! — I 
should have a dreadful time — I wonder if I could go through with 
it. Oh, yes, I could, if it was right, — and besides would rather 
bear any thing in the world from them than have John displeased 
with me ; — a great deal rather ! But perhaps after all they will 
not want any thing wrong of me. I wonder if this is really to be 
my home always, and if I shall never get home again ? — John will 
not leave me here ! — but I don’t see how in the world he can help 
it, for my father and my mother, and I myself — I know what he 
would tell me if he was here, and I’ll try to do it. God will take 
care of me if I follow him ; it is none of my business.” 

Simply and heartily commending her interests to his keeping, 
Ellen tried to lay aside the care of herself. She went on musing ; 
how very different and how much greater her enjoyment would 
have been that day if John had been with her. Mr. Lindsay, to 
be sure, had answered her questions with abundant kindness and 
sufficient ability ; but his answers did not, as those of her brother 
often did, skilfully draw her on from one thing to another, till a 
train of thought was opened which at the setting out she never 
dreamed of ; and along with the joy of acquiring new knowledge 
she had the pleasure of discovering new fields of it to be explored, 
and the delight of the felt exercise and enlargement of her own 
powers, which were sure to be actively called into play. Mr. 
Lindsay told her what she asked, and there left her. Ellen found 
herself growing melancholy over the comparison she was drawing ; 
and wisely went to the bookcases to divert her thoughts. Finding 
presently a history of Scotland, she took it down, resolving to re- 
fresh her memory on % subject which had gained such new and 
strange interest for her. Before long, however, fatigue and the 
wine she had drunk effectually got the better of studious thoughts ; 
she stretched herself on the sofa and fell asleep. 

There Mr. Lindsay found her a couple of hours afterwards 
under the guard of the housekeeper. 

“ I cam in, sir,” she said whispering, — “it’s mair than an hour 


520 


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back, and she’s been sleeping just like a baby ever syne; she 
hasna stirred a finger. Oh, Mr. Lindsay, it’s a bonny bairn, and 
a gude. What a blessing to the house !” 

“ You’re about right there, I believe, Maggie; but how have 
you learned it so fast ?” 

“I canna be mista’en, Mr. George, — I ken it as weel as if we 
had a year auld acquentance ; I ken it by thae sweet mouth and 
een, and by the look she gied me when you tauld her, sir, I had 
been in the house near as long’s yoursel. An’ look at her eenow. 
There’s heaven’s peace within, I’m a’ maist assured.” 

The kiss that wakened Ellen found her in the midst of a dream. 
She thought that John was a king of Scotland, and standing be- 
fore her in regal attire. She offered him, she thought, a glass of 
wine, but raising the sword of state, silver scabbard and all, he 
with a tremendous swing of it dashed the glass out of her hands ; 
and then as she stood abashed, he went forward with one of his 
old grave kind looks to kiss her. As the kiss touched her lips 
Ellen opened her eyes to find her brother transformed into Mr. 
Lindsay, and the empty glass standing safe and sound upon the 
table. 

“You must have had a pleasant nap,” said Mr. Lindsay, “ you 
wake up smiling. Come — make haste — I have left a friend in the 
carriage. — Bring your book along if you want it.” 

The presence of the stranger, who was going down to spend a 
day or two at “ the Braes,” prevented Ellen from having any talk- 
ing to do. Comfortably placed in the corner of the front seat of 
the barouche, leaning on the elbow of the carriage, she was left to 
her own musings. She could hardly realize the change in her cir- 
cumstances. The carriage rolling fast and smoothly on — the two 
gentlemen opposite to her, one her father ! — the strange, varied, 
beautiful scenes they were flitting by, — the long shadows made by 
the descending sun, — the cool evening air, — Ellen, leaning back in 
the wide easy seat, felt as if she were in a dream. It was singularly 
pleasant; she could not help but enjoy it all very much; and yet 
it seemed to her as if she were caught in a net from which she had 
no power to get free ; and she longed to clasp that hand that could 
she thought draw her whence and whither it pleased. “ But Mr. 
Lindsay opposite ? — I have called him my father — I have given 
myself to him,” she thought; — “but I gave myself to somebody 
else first; — I can’t undo that — and I never will!” Again she 
tried to quiet and resign the care of herself to better wisdom and 
greater strength than her own. “ This may all be arranged, easily, 
in some way I could never dream of,” she said to herself ; “I 
have no business to be uneasy. Two months ago, and I was 
quietly at home and seemed to be fixed there for ever ; and now, 
and without any thing extraordinary happening, here I am, — 


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just as fixed. Yes, and before that, at aunt Fortune’s, — it didn’t 
seem possible that I could ever get away from being her child ; 
and yet how easily all that was managed. And just so in some 
way that I cannot imagine, things may open so as to let me out 
smoothly from this.” She resolved to be patient, and take thank- 
fully what she at present had to enjoy ; and in this mood of mind 
the drive home was beautiful ; and the evening was happily ab- 
sorbed in the history of Scotland. 

It was a grave question in the family that same evening 
whether Ellen should be sent to school. Lady Keith was decided 
in favour of it ; her mother seemed doubtful ; Mr. Lindsay, who 
had a vision of the little figure lying asleep on his library sofa, 
thought the room had never looked so cheerful before, and had 
near made up his mind that she should be its constant adornment 
the coming winter. Lady Keith urged the school plan. 

“ Not a boarding-school,” said Mrs. Lindsay; — “ I will not hear 
of that.” 

" No, but a day-school ; it would do her a vast deal of good I 
am certain ; her notions want shaking up very much. And I never 
saw a child of her age so much a child.” 

“I assure you I never saw one so much a woman. She has 
asked me to-day, I suppose,” said he smiling, “ a hundred questions 
or less ; and I assure you there was not one foolish or vain one 
among them ; not one that was not sensible, and most of them 
singularly so.” 

“ She was greatly pleased with her day,” said Mrs. Lindsay. 

“ I never saw such a baby face in my life,” said Lady Keith, — 
“ in a child of her years.” 

“ It is a face of uncommon intelligence !” said her brother. 

“It is both,” said Mrs. Lindsay. 

“ I was struck with it the other day,” said Lady Keith, — “ the 
day she slept so long upon the sofa up stairs after she was dressed ; 
she had been crying about something, and her eyelashes were wet 
still, and she had that curious grave innocent look you only see in 
infants ; you might have thought she was fourteen months instead 
of fourteen years old ; fourteen and a half she says she is.” 

“ Crying ?” said Mr. Lindsay ; — “ what was the matter?” 

“Nothing,” said Mrs. Lindsay, “ but that she had been obliged 
to submit to me in something that did not please her.” 

4< Did she give you any cause of displeasure ?” 

“ No, — though I can see she has strong passions. But she is 
the first child I ever saw that I think I could not get angry with.” 

“ Mother’s heart half misgave her, I believe,” said Lady Keith 
laughing ; — “ she sat there looking at her for an hour.” 

“She seems to me perfectly gentle and submissive,” said Mr. 
Lindsay. 


44 * 


522 


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11 Yes, but don’t trust too much to appearances,” said his sister. 
u If she is not a true Lindsay after all I am mistaken. Did you 
see her colour once or twice this morning when something was said 
that did not please her ?” 

“ You can judge nothing from that,” said Mr. Lindsay, — “ she 
colours at every thing. You should have seen her to-day when I 
told her I would take her to Bannockburn.” 

“ Ah, she has got the right side of you ; you will be able to dis- 
cern no faults in her presently.” 

“ She has used no arts for it, sister ; she is a straightforward 
little hussy, and that is one thing I like about her ; though I was 
as near as possible being provoked with her once or twice to-day. 
There is only one thing I wish was altered, — she has her head filled 
with strange notions — absurd for a child of her age — I don’t know 
what I shall do to get rid of them.” 

After some more conversation it was decided that school would 
be the best thing for this end, and half decided that Ellen should 
g°- 

But this half decision Mr. Lindsay found it very difficult to keep 
to, and circumstances soon destroyed it entirely. Company was 
constantly coming and going at “ the Braes,” and much of it of a 
kind that Ellen exceedingly liked to see and hear ; intelligent, cul- 
tivated, well-informed people, whose conversation was highly agree- 
able and always useful to her. Ellen had nothing to do with the 
talking, so she made good use of her ears. 

One evening Mr. Lindsay, a M. Villars, and M. Muller, a Swiss 
gentleman and a noted man of science, very much at home in Mr. 
Lindsay’s house, were carrying on, in French, a conversation in 
which the two foreigners took part against their host. M. Villars 
began with talking about Lafayette ; from him they went to the 
American Devolution, and Washington, and from them to other 
patriots and other republics, ancient and modern ; — MM. Villars 
and Muller taking the side of freedom and pressing Mr. Lindsay 
hard with argument, authority, example,, and historical testimony. 
Ellen as usual was fast by his side, and delighted to see that he 
could by no means make good his ground. The ladies at the other 
end of the room would several times have drawn her away, but 
happily for her, and also as usual, Mr. Lindsay’s arm was around 
her shoulders, and she was left in quiet to listen. The conversa 
tion was very lively, and on a subject very interesting to her; for 
America had been always a darling theme ; Scottish struggles for 
freedom were fresh in her mind ; her attention had long ago been 
called to Switzerland and its history by Alice and Mrs. Vawse, and 
French history had formed a good part of her last winter’s reading. 
She listened with the most eager delight, too much engrossed to 
notice the good-humoured glances that were every now and then 


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523 


given her by one of the speakers. Not Mr. Lindsay ; — though his 
hand was upon her shoulder or playing with the light curls that 
fell over her temples, he did not see that her face was flushed with 
interest, or notice the quick smile and sparkle of the eye that fol- 
lowed every turn in the conversation that favoured her wishes or 
foiled his ; — it was M. Muller. They came to the Swiss, and their 
famous struggle for freedom against Austrian oppression. M. 
Muller wished to speak of the noted battle in which that freedom 
was made sure, but for the moment its name had escaped him. 

“ Par ma foi,” said M. Villars, — ■“ il m’a entierement pass6 !” 

Mr. Lindsay could not or would not help him out. But M. 
Muller suddenly turned to Ellen, in whose face he thought he saw 
a look of intelligence, and begged of her the missing name. 

“Est-ce Morgarten, monsieur?” said Ellen blushing. 

“ Morgarten ! c’est 9a!” said he with a polite, pleased bow of 
thanks. Mr. Lindsay was little less astonished than the Duke of 
Argyle when his gardener claimed to be the owner of a Latin work 
on mathematics. 

The conversation presently took a new turn with M. Villars ; and 
M. Muller withdrawing from it addressed himself to Ellen. He 
was a pleasant-looking elderly gentleman ; she had never seen him 
before that evening. 

“ You know French well then?” said he, speaking to her in that 
tongue. 

“ I don’t know, sir,” said Ellen modestly. 

u And you have heard of the Swiss mountaineers?” 

“ Oh, yes, sir ; a great deal.” 

He opened his watch and showed her in the back of it an ex- 
quisite little painting, asking her if she knew what it was. 

“ It is an Alpine chalet, is it not, sir ?” 

He was pleased and went on, always in French, to tell Ellen 
that Switzerland was his country ; and drawing a little aside from 
the other talkers, he entered into a long and to her most delightful 
conversation. In the pleasantest manner he gave her a vast deal 
of very entertaining detail about the country and the manners and 
habits of the people of the Alps, especially in the Tyrol, where he 
had often travelled. It would have been hard to tell whether the 
child had most pleasure in receiving, or the man of deep study and 
science most pleasure in giving, all manner of information. He 
saw, he said, that she was very fond of the heroes of freedom, and 
asked if she had ever heard of Andrew Hofer, the Tyrolese peas- 
ant who led on his brethren in their noble endeavours to rid them- 
selves of French and Bavarian oppression. Ellen had never heard 
of him. 

“ You know William Tell?” 

u Oh, yes,” Ellen said, — she knew him. 


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“ And Bonaparte?” 

“ Yes, very well.” 

He went on then to give her in a very interesting way the 
history of Hofer; — how when Napoleon made over his country to 
the rule of the King of Bavaria, who oppressed them, they rose 
in mass ; overcame army after army that were sent against them 
in their mountain fastnesses, and freed themselves from the hated 
Bavarian government; how years after Napoleon was at last too 
strong for them ; Hofer and his companions defeated, hunted like 
wild beasts, shot down like them ; how Hofer was at last betrayed 
by a friend, taken, and executed, being only seen to weep at part- 
ing with his family. The beautiful story was well told, and the 
speaker was animated by the eager deep attention and sympathy 
of his auditor, whose changing colour, smiles, and even tears, 
showed how well she entered into the feelings of the patriots in 
their struggle, triumph, and downfall ; till as he finished she was 
left full of pity for them and hatred of Napoleon. They talked 
of the Alps again. M. Muller put his hand in his pocket, and 
pulled out a little painting in mosaic to show her, which he said 
had been given him that day. It was a beautiful piece of pietra 
dura work — Mont Blanc. He assured her the mountain often 
looked exactly so. Ellen admired it very much. It was meant to 
be set for a brooch or some such thing, he said, and he asked if 
she would keep it and sometimes wear it, to “ remember the Swiss, 
and to do him a pleasure.” 

“ Moi, monsieur!” said Ellen, colouring high with surprise and 
pleasure, — “je suis bien obligee — mais, monsieur, je ne saurais 
vous remercier!” 

He would count himself well paid, he said, with a single touch 
of her lips. 

“ Tenez, monsieur !” said Ellen, blushing, but smiling, and ten- 
dering back the mosaic. 

He laughed and bowed and begged her pardon, and said she 
must keep it to assure him she had forgiven him ; and then he 
asked by what name he might remember her. 

“ Monsieur, je m’appelle Ellen M ” 

She stopped short, in utter and blank uncertainty what to call 
herself; Montgomery she dared not; Lindsay stuck in her throat. 

“ Have you forgotten it?” said M. Muller, amused at her look, 
“ or is it a secret?” 

“ Tell M. Muller your name, Ellen,” said Mr. Lindsay, turning 
round from a group where he was standing at a little distance. 
The tone was stern and displeased. Ellen felt it keenly, and with 
difficulty and some hesitation still, murmured, 

“ Ellen Lindsay.” 

u Lindsay ? Are you the daughter of my friend Mr. Lindsay ?” 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 525 

Again Ellen hesitated, in great doubt how to answer, but finally, 
not without starting tears, said, 

“ Oui, monsieur.” 

“Your memory is bad to-night,” said Mr. Lindsay, in her ear, 
— “ you had better go where you can refresh it.” 

Ellen took this as a hint to leave the room, which she did 
immediately, not a little hurt at the displeasure she did not thin 1 
she had deserved ; she loved Mr. Lindsay the best of all her rela- 
tions, and really loved him. She went to bed and to sleep again 
that night with wet eyelashes. 

Meanwhile M. Muller was gratifying Mr. Lindsay in a high de- 
gree by the praises he bestowed upon his daughter, — her intelli- 
gence, her manners, her modesty, and her French. He asked if 
she was to be in Edinburgh that winter and whether she would be 
at school ; and Mr. Lindsay declaring himself undecided on the 
latter point, M. Muller said he should be pleased, if she had 
leisure, to have her come to his rooms two or three times a week 
to read with him. This offer, from a person of M. Muller’s 
standing and studious habits, Mr. Lindsay justly took as both a 
great compliment and a great promise of advantage to Ellen. He 
at once and with much pleasure accepted it. So the question of 
school was settled. 

Ellen resolved the next morning to lose no time in making up 
her difference with Mr. Lindsay, and schooled herself to use a 
form of words that she thought would please him. Pride said 
indeed, “ Do no such thing ; don’t go to making acknowledge- 
ments when you have not been in the wrong ; you are not bound 
to humble yourself before unjust displeasure.” Pride pleaded 
powerfully. But neither Ellen’s heart nor her conscience would 
permit her to take this advice. “ He loves me very much,” she 
thought, — “ and perhaps he did not understand me last night ; 
and besides, I owe him — yes, I do ! — a child’s obedience now. I 
ought not to leave him displeased with me a moment longer than 
I can help. And besides I couldn’t be happy so. God gives grace 
to the humble — I will humble myself.” 

To have a chance for executing this determination she went down 
stairs a good deal earlier than usual ; she knew Mr. Lindsay was 
generally there before the rest of the family, and she hoped to see 
him alone. It was too soon even for him, however; the rooms 
were empty ; so Ellen took her book from the table, and being 
perfectly at peace with herself, sat down in the window and was 
presently lost in the interest of what she was reading. She did 
not know of Mr. Lindsay’s approach till a little imperative tap on 
her shoulder startled her. 

“ What were you thinking of last night ? what made you answer 
M. Muller in the way you did ?” 


526 the WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 

Ellen started up, but to utter her prepared speech was no longer 
possible. 

“ I did not know what to say,” she said, looking down. 

“What do you mean by that?” said he angrily. “Didn’t you 
know what I wished you to say?” 

“ Yes — but — do not speak to me in that way !” exclaimed Ellen, 
covering her face with her hands. Pride struggled to keep back 
the tears that wanted to flow. 

“I shall choose my own method of speaking. Why did you 
not say what you knew I wished you to say N ?” 

“ I was afraid — I didn’t know — but he would think what wasn’t 
true.” 

“ That is precisely what I wish him and all the world to think. I 
will have no difference made, Ellen, either by them or you. Now 
lift up your head and listen to me,” said he, taking both her hands, 
— “I lay my commands upon you, whenever the like questions 
may be asked again, that you answer simply according to what I 
have told you, without any explanation or addition. It is true, and 
if people draw conclusions that are not true, it is what I wish. Do 
you understand me?” 

Ellen bowed. 

“ Will you obey me?” 

She answered again in the same mute way. 

He ceased to hold her at arm’s length, and sitting down in her 
chair drew her close to him, saying more kindly, 

“ You must not displease me, Ellen.” 

“I had no thought of displeasing you, sir,” said Ellen bursting 
into tears, — “ and I was very sorry for it last night. I did not 
mean to disobey you — I only hesitated ” 

“ Hesitate no more. My commands may serve to remove the 
cause of it. You are my daughter, Ellen, and I am your father. 
Poor child !” said he, for Ellen was violently agitated, — “ I don’t 
believe I shall have much difficulty with you.” 

“If you will only not speak and look at me so,” said Ellen, — 
“it makes me very unhappy ” 

“ Hush !” said he kissing her; — “ do not give me occasion.” 

“ I did not give you occasion, sir?” 

“ Why, Ellen !” said Mr. Lindsay, half displeased again, — “ I 
shall begin to think your aunt Keith is right, that you are a true 
Lindsay. But so am I, — and I will have only obedience from you 
— without either answering or argumenting.” 

“ You shall,” murmured Ellen. “ But do not be displeased with 
me, father.” 

Ellen had schooled herself to say that word ; she knew it would 
greatly please him ; and she was not mistaken ; though it was 
spoken so low that his ears could but just catch it. Displeasure 




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527 


was entirely overcome. He pressed her to his heart, kissing her 
with great tenderness, and would not let her go from his arms till 
he had seen her smile again ; and during all the day he was not 
willing to have her out of his sight. 

It would have been easy that morning for Ellen to have made a 
breech between them that would not readily have been healed. 
One word of humility had prevented it all, and fastened her more 
firmly than ever in Mr. Lindsay’s affection. She met with nothing 
from him but tokens of great and tender fondness ; and Lady Keith 
told her mother apart that there would be no doing any thing with 
George ; she saw he was getting bewitched with that child. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

My heart is sair, I dare nae tell, 

My heart is sair for somebody j 
I could wake a winter night 
For the sake of somebody. 

Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 

Oh hey ! for somebody ! 

I wad do — what wad I not, 

For the sake of somebody. 

Scotch Song. 

In a few weeks they moved to Edinburgh, where arrangements 
were speedily made for giving Ellen every means of improvement 
that masters and mistresses, books and instruments, could afford. 

The house in Georges-street was large and pleasant. To Ellen’s 
great joy, a pretty little room opening from the first landing-place 
of the private staircase was assigned for her special use as a study 
and work-room ; and fitted up nicely for her with a small bookcase, 
a practising piano, and various etceteras. Here her beloved desk 
took its place on a table in the middle of the floor, where Ellen 
thought she would make many a new drawing when she was by 
herself. Her work-box was accommodated with a smaller stand 
near the window. A glass door at one end of the room opened 
upon a small iron balcony ; this door and balcony Ellen esteemed a 
very particular treasure. With marvellous satisfaction she ar- 
ranged and rearranged her little sanctum till she had all things to 
her mind, and it only wanted, she thought, a glass of flowers. “ I 
will have that too some of these days,” she said to herself; and 
resolved to deserve her pretty room by being very busy there. It 
was hers alone, open indeed to her friends when they chose to 
keep her company ; but lessons were taken elsewhere ; in the 
library, or the music-room, or more frequently her grandmother’s 


528 


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dressing-room. Wherever, or whatever, Mrs. Lindsay or Lady 
Keith was always present. 

Ellen was the plaything, pride, and delight of the whole family. 
Not so much however Lady Keith’s plaything as her pride ; while 
pride had a less share in the affection of the other two, or rather 
perhaps was more overtopped by it. Ellen felt however that all 
their hearts were set upon her, felt it gratefully, and determined 



she would give them all the pleasure she possibly could. Her love 
for other friends, friends that they knew nothing of, American 
friends, was, she knew, the sore point with them ; she resolved 
not to speak of those friends, nor allude to them, especially in any 
way that should show how much of her heart was out of Scotland. 
But this wise resolution it was very hard for poor Ellen to keep. 
She was unaccustomed to concealments ; and in ways that she 


V 


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could neither foresee nor prevent, the unwelcome truth would come 
up, and the sore was not healed. 

One day Ellen had a headache and was sent to lie down. Alone, 
and quietly stretched on her bed, very naturally Ellen’s thoughts 
went back to the last time she had had a headache, at home> as she 
always called it to herself. She recalled with a straitened heart 
the gentle and tender manner of John’s care for her; how nicely 
he had placed her on the sofa ; how he sat by her side bathing her 
temples, or laying his cool hand on her forehead, and once, she re- 
membered, his lips. “ I wonder,” thought Ellen, “ what I ever did 
to make him love me so much, as I know he does?” She remem- 
bered how, when she was able to listen, he still sat beside her, talk- 
ing such sweet words of kindness and comfort and amusement, that 
she almost loved to be sick to have such tending, and looked up at 
him as at an angel. She felt it all over again. Unfortunately, 
after she had fallen asleep, Mrs. Lindsay came in to see how she was, 
and two tears, the last pair of them, were slowly making their way 
down her cheeks. Her grandmother saw them, and did not rest till 
she knew the cause. Ellen was extremely sorry to tell, she did her 
best to get off from it, but she did not know how to evade ques- 
tions ; and those that were put to her indeed admitted of no evasion. 

A few days later, just after they came to Edinburgh, it was re- 
marked one morning at breakfast that Ellen was very straight and 
carried herself well. 

“ It is no thanks to me,” said Ellen smiling, — “ they never would 
let me hold myself ill.” 

“ Who is ‘ they ?’ ” said Lady Keith. 

“ My brother and sister.” 

“ I wish, George,” said Lady Keith discontentedly, “ that you 
would lay your commands upon Ellen to use that form of expres- 
sion no more. My ears are absolutely sick of it.” 

“You do not hear it very often, aunt Keith,” Ellen could not 
help saying. 

“ Quite often enough ; and I know it is upon your lips a thou- 
sand times when you do not speak it.” 

“ And if Ellen does, we do not,” said Mrs. Lindsay, “ wish to 
claim kindred with all the world.” 

“ How came you to take up such an absurd habit?” said Lady 
Keith. “It isn’t like you.” 

“ They took it up first,” said Ellen ; — “ I was too glad ” 

“Yes, I dare say they had their reasons for taking it up,” said 
her aunt; — “they had acted from interested motives I have no 
doubt; people always do.” 

“You are very much mistaken, aunt Keith,” said Ellen, with 
uncontrollable feeling ; — “ you do not in the least know what you 
are talking about 1” 


ii 


x 


45 


530 


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Instantly, Mr. Lindsay’s fingers tapped her lips. Ellen coloured 
painfully, but after an instant’s hesitation she said, 

“ I beg your pardon, aunt Keith, I should not have said that.” 

“ Very well !” said Mr. Lindsay. “ But understand, Ellen, how- 
ever you may have taken it up, — this habit, — you will lay it down 
for the future. Let us hear no more of brothers and sisters. I 
cannot, as your grandmother says, fraternize with all the world, 
especially with unknown relations.” 

“I am very glad you have made that regulation,” said Mrs. 
Lindsay. 

“ I cannot conceive how Ellen has got such a way of it,” said 
Lady Keith. 

“It is very natural,” said Ellen, with some huskiness of voice, 
“that I should say so, because I feel so.” 

“You do not mean to say,” said Mr. Lindsay, “that this Mr. 
and Miss Somebody — these people — I don’t know their names ” 

“There is only one now, sir.” 

“ This person you call your brother — do you mean to say you 
have the same regard for him as if he had been born so?” 

“ No,” said Ellen, cheek and eye suddenly firing, — “ but a thou- 
sand times more !” 

She was exceedingly sorry the next minute after she had said 
this ; for she knew it had given both pain and displeasure in a great 
degree. No answer was made. Ellen dared not look at any body, 
and needed not ; she wished the silence might be broken ; but 
nothing was heard except a low “ whew !” from Mr. Lindsay, till 
he rose up and left the room. Ellen was sure he was very much 
displeased. Even the ladies were too much offended to speak on 
the subject ; and she was merely bade to go to her room. She 
went there, and sitting down on the floor, covered her face with 
her hands. “What shall I do ? what shall I do?” she said to 
herself. “ I never shall govern this tongue of mine. Oh, I wish 
I had not said that ! they never will forgive it. What can I do to 
make them pleased with me again ? — Shall I go to my father’s 
study and beg him — but I can’t ask him to forgive me — I haven’t 
done wrong — I can’t unsay what I said. I can do nothing, — I can 
only go in the way of my duty and do the best I can, — and maybe 
they will come round again. But oh, dear !” — 

A flood of tears followed this resolution. 

Ellen kept it ; she tried to be blameless in all her work and be- 
haviour, but she sorrowfully felt that her friends did not forgive 
her. There was a cool air of displeasure about all they said and 
did ; the hand of fondness was not laid upon her shoulder, she was 
not wrapped in loving arms, as she used to be a dozen times a day ; 
no kisses fell on her brow or lips. Ellen felt it, more from Mr. 
Lindsay than both the others ; her spirits sunk ; — she had been 


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531 


forbidden to speak of her absent friends, but that was not the way 
to make her forget them ; and there was scarce a minute in the day 
when her brother was not present to her thoughts. 

Sunday came; her first Sunday in Edinburgh. All went to 
church in the morning ; in the afternoon Ellen found that nobody 
was going ; her grandmother was lying down. She asked permis- 
sion to go alone. 

“ Do you want to go because you think you must? or for pleas- 
ure?” said Mrs. Lindsay. 

“ For pleasure !” said Ellen’s tongue and her opening eyes at 
the same time. 

“ You may go.” 

“ With eager delight Ellen got ready, and was hastening along 
the hall to the door, when she met Mr. Lindsay. 

“ Where are you going ?” 

“ To church, sir.” 

“ Alone ! What do you want to go for! No, no, I shan’t let 
you. Come in here — I want you with me ; — you have been once 
to-day already, haven’t you? You do not want to go again ?” 

“ I do indeed, sir, very much,” said Ellen, as she reluctantly 
followed him into the library, — “if you have no objection. You 
know I have not seen Edinburgh yet.” 

“Edinburgh! that’s true, so you haven’t,” said he, looking at 
her discomfited face. “ Well go, if you want to go so much.” 

Ellen got as far as the hall door, no further ; she rushed back to 
the library. 

“ I did not say right when I said that,” she burst forth ; — “ that 
was not the reason I wanted to go. — I will stay, if you wish me, 
sir.” 

“I don’t wish it,” said he in surprise “ I don’t know what 
you mean— I am willing you should go if you like it. Away with 
you ! it is time.” 

Once more Ellen set out, but this time with a heart, full ; much 
too full to think of any thing she saw by the way. It was with a 
singular feeling of pleasure that she entered the church alone. It 
was a strange church to her, never seen but once before, and as she 
softly passed up the broad aisle she saw nothing in the building or 
the people around her that was not strange, — no familiar face, no 
familiar thing. But it was a church, and she was alone, quite 
alone in the midst of that crowd ; and she went up to the empty 
pew and ensconced herself in the far corner of it, with a curious 
feeling of quiet and of being at home. She was no sooner seated, 
however, than leaning forward as much as possible to screen her- 
self from observation, bending her head upon her knees, she burst 
into an agony of tears. It was a great relief to be able to weep 
freely ; at home she was afraid of being seen or heard or questioned ; 


532 


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now she was alone and free, and she poured out her very heart in 
weeping that she with difficulty kept from being loud weeping. 

“ Oh, how could I say that how could I say that Oh, what would 
John have thought of me if he had heard it! — Am I beginning already 
to lose my truth ? am I going backward already ? Oh, what shall I do ! 
what will become of me if I do not watch over myself — there 
is no one to help me or lead me right — not a single one — all to 
lead me wrong ! what will become of me ? — But there is One who 
has promised to keep those that follow him — he is sufficient, with- 
out any others — I have not kept near enough to him ! that is it ; — 
I have not remembered nor loved him — ‘ If ye love me, keep my 
commandments,’ — I have not! I have not! Oh, but I will ! — I 
will ; and he will be with me, and help me and bless me, and all 
will go right with me.” 

With bitter tears Ellen mingled as eager prayers, for forgiveness 
and help to be faithful. She resolved that nothing, come what 
would, should tempt her to swerve one iota from the straight line 
of truth ; she resolved to be more careful of her private hour ; she 
thought she had scarcely had her full hour a day lately ; she re- 
solved to make the Bible her only and her constant rule of life in 
every thing ; — and she prayed, such prayers as a heart thoroughly 
in earnest can pray, for the seal to these resolutions. Not one 
word of the sermon did Ellen hear ; but she never passed a more 
profitable hour in church in her life. 

All her tears were not from the spring of these thoughts and 
feelings ; some were the pouring out of the gathered sadness of the 
week ; some came from recollections, oh, how tender and strong ! 
of lost and distant friends. Her mother — and Alice — and Mr. 
Humphreys — and Margery — and Mr. Van Brunt — and Mr. George 
Marshman ; — and she longed, with longing that seemed as if it 
would have burst her heart, to see her brother. She longed for 
the pleasant voice, the eye of thousand expressions, into which she 
always looked as if she had never seen it before, the calm look 
that told he was satisfied with her, the touch of his hand, which 
many a time had said a volume. Ellen thought she would give 
any thing in the world to see him and hear him speak one word. 
As this could not be, she resolved with the greatest care to do what 
would please him ; that when she did see him he might find her all 
he wished. 

She had wept herself out ; she had refreshed and strengthened 
herself by fleeing to the stronghold of the prisoners of hope ; and 
when the last hymn was given out she raised her head and took 
the book to find it. To her great surprise she saw Mr. Lindsay 
sitting at the other end of the pew, with folded arms, like a man 
not thinking of what was going on around him. Ellen was star- 
tled, but obeying the instinct that told her what he would like, she 


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533 


immediately moved down the pew and stood beside him while the 
last hymn was singing ; and if Ellen had joined in no other part 
of the service that afternoon, she at least did in that with all her 
heart. They walked home then without a word on either side. 
Mr. Lindsay did not quit her hand till he had drawn her into the 
library. There he threw off her bonnet and wrappers, and taking 
her in his arms, exclaimed, 

“ My poor little darling! what was the matter with you this 
afternoon ?” 

There was so much of kindness again in his tone, that over- 
joyed, Ellen eagerly returned his caress, and assured him that there 
was nothing the matter with her now. 

“ Nothing the matter !” said he, tenderly pressing her face against 
his own, — “ nothing the matter! with these pale cheeks and wet 
eyes ? nothing now , Ellen ?” 

“ Only that I am so glad to hear you speak kindly to me again, 
sir.” 

“ Kindly? I will never speak any way but kindly to you, 
daughter ; — come ! I will not have any more tears — you have shed 
enough for to-day I am sure ; lift up your face and I will kiss 
them away. What was the matter with you, my child ?” 

But he had to wait a little while for an answer. 

“ What was it, Ellen?” 

“ One thing,” said Ellen, — “ I was sorry for what I had said to 
you, sir, just before I went out.” 

“ What was that ? I do not remember any thing that deserved 
to be a cause of grief.” 

“ I told you, sir, when I wanted you to let me go to church, that 
I hadn’t seen Edinburgh yet.” 

“ Well ?” 

“ Well, sir, that wasn’t being quite true ; and I was very sorry 
for it !” 

“ Not true ? yes it was ; what do you mean ? you had not seen 
Edinburgh.” 

“ No, sir, but I mean — that was true, but I said it to make you 
believe what wasn’t true.” 

“How ?” 

“ I meant you to think, sir, that that was the reason why I 
wanted to go to church — to see the city and the new sights— and 
it wasn’t at all.” 

“ What was it then ?” 

Ellen hesitated. 

“ I always love to go, sir, — and besides I believe I wanted to be 
alone.” 

“ And you were not, after all,” said Mr. Lindsay, again pressing 
her cheek to his, — “ for I followed you there. But Ellen, my 

45 * 


534 THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 

child, you were troubled without reason ; you had said nothing 
that was false.” 

“ Ah, sir, but I had made you believe what was false.” 

“ Upon my word,” said Mr. Lindsay, “ you are a nice reasoner. 
And are you always true upon this close scale ?” 

“ I wish I was, sir, but you see I am not. I am sure I hate 
every thing else !” 

“ Well, I will not quarrel with you for being true,” said Mr. 
Lindsay; — “I wish there was a little more of it in the world. 
Was this the cause of all those tears this afternoon ?” 

“ Njo, sir — not all.” 

“ What beside, Ellen ?” 

Ellen looked down, and was silent. 

“ Come — I must know.” 

“ Must I tell you all, sir?” 

“ You must indeed,” said he smiling ; “I will have the whole, 
daughter.” 

“ I had been feeling sorry all the week because you and grand- 
mother and aunt Keith were displeased with me.” 

Again Mr. Lindsay’s silent caress in its tenderness seemed to 
say that she should never have the same complaint to make again. 

“ Was that all, Ellen?” as she hesitated. 

“ No, sir.” 

“Well ?” 

“ I wish you wouldn’t ask me further; please do not ! — I shall 
displease you again.” 

“I will not be displeased.” 

“ I was thinking of Mr. Humphreys,” said Ellen in a low tone. 

“ Who is that ?” 

“ You know, sir, — you say I must not call him ” 

“ What were you thinking of him ?” 

“ 1 was wishing very much I could see him again.” 

“Well you are a truth-teller,” said Mr. Lindsay, — “ or bolder 
than I think you.” 

“ You said you would not be displeased, sir.” 

“Neither will I, daughter; but what shall I do to make you 
forget these people ?” 

“Nothing, sir; I jannot forget them; I shouldn’t deserve to 
have you love me a bit if I could. Let me love them, aud do not 
be angry with me for it!” 

“ But I am not satisfied tc have your body here and your heart 
somewhere else.” 

“ I must have a poor little kind of heart,” said Ellen, smiling 
amidst her tears, “ if it had room in it for only one person.” 

“ Ellen,” said Mr. Lindsay inquisitively, “ did you insinuate a 
falsehood there ?” 


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535 


“ No, sir !” 

“ There is honesty in those eyes,” said he, “ if there is honesty 
anywhere in the world. I am satisfied— that is half satisfied. 
Now lie there, my little daughter, and rest,” said he, laying her 
upon the sofa; “ you look as if you needed it.” 

“I don’t need any thing now,” said Ellen, as she laid her cheek 
upon the grateful pillow, “ except one thing — if grandmother 
would only forgive me too.” 

“ You must try not to offend your grandmother, Ellen, for she 
does not very readily forgive ; but I think we can arrange this 
matter. Go you to sleep.” 

“I wonder,” said Ellen, smiling as she closed her eyes, “ why 
every body calls me ‘ little ;’ I don’t think I am very little. 
Every body says ‘ little.’ ” 

Mr. Lindsay thought he understood it when a few minutes after 
he sat watching her as she really had fallen asleep. The innocent 
brow, the perfect sweet calm of the face, seemed to belong to 
much younger years. Even Mr. Lindsay could not help recollect- 
ing the housekeeper’s comment, “ Heaven’s peace within scarcely 
Ellen’s own mother ever watched over her with more fond tender- 
ness than her adopted father did now. 

For several days after this he would hardly permit her to leave 
him. He made her bring her books and study where he was ; he 
went out and came in with her ; and kept her by his side when- 
ever they joined the rest of the family at meals or in the evening. 
Whether Mr. Lindsay intended it or not, this had soon the effect to 
abate the displeasure of his mother and sister. Ellen was almost 
taken out of their hands, and they thought it expedient not to let 
him have the whole of her. And though Ellen could better bear 
their cold looks and words since she had Mr. Lindsay’s favour 
again, she was very glad when they smiled upon her too, and went 
dancing about with quite a happy face. 

She was now very busy. She had masters for the piano and 
singing and different branches of knowledge ; she went to Mr. 
Muller regularly twice a week ; and soon her riding-attendance 
began. She had said no more on the subject, but went quietly, 
hoping they would find out their mistake before long. Lady Keith 
always accompanied her. 

One day Ellen had ridden near her usual time, when a young 
lady with whom she attended a German class, came up to where 
she w r as resting. This lady was several years older than Ellen, 
but had taken a fancy to her. 

“ How finely you got on yesterday,” said she, — “ making us all 
ashamed. Ah, I guess M. Muller helped you.” 

“ Yes,” said Ellen, smiling, “ he did help me a little; he helped 
me with those troublesome pronunciations.” 


53G 


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“ With nothing else, I suppose? Ah. well, we must submit to 
be stupid. How do you do to-day ?” 

“ I am very tired, Miss Gordon.” 

“ Tired ? Oh, you’re not used to it.” 

“No it isn’t that,” said Ellen ; — “ I am used to it— that is the 
reason I am tired. I am accustomed to ride up and down the 
country at any pace I like ; and it is very tiresome to walk stupidly 
round and round for an hour.” 

“But do you know how to manage a horse ? I thought you 
were only just beginning to learn.” 

“ Oh, no — I have been learning this great while ; — only they 
don’t think I know how, and they have never seen me. Are you 
just come, Miss Gordon?” 

“Yes, and they are bringing out Sophronisbe for me — do you 
know Sophronisbe ? — look — that light grey — isn’t she beautiful ? 
she’s the loveliest creature in the whole stud.” 

“ Oh, I know !” said Ellen ; “ I saw you on her the other day ; 
she went charmingly. How long shall I be kept walking here, 
Miss Gordon ?” 

“ Why I don’t know — I should thinic they would find out — what 
does He Courcy say to you ?” 

“ Oh, he comes and looks at me and says, * tres bien — tr&s bien,’ 
and { allez comme ga,’ and then he walks off.” 

“Well I declare that is too bad,” said Miss Gordon laughing. 
“Look here — I’ve got a good thought in my head — suppose you 
mount Sophronisbe in my place, without saying any thing to any 
body, and let them see .what you are up to. Can you trust your- 
self ? she’s very spirited.” 

“ I could trust myself,” said Ellen ; “ but, thank you, I think I 
had better not.” 

“Afraid?” 

“ No, not at all ; but my aunt and father would not like it.” 

“Nonsense ! how should they dislike it — there’s no sort of dan- 
ger, you know. Come ! — I thought you sat wonderfully for a be- 
ginner. I am surprised He Courcy hadn’t better eyes. I guess 
you have learned German before Ellen? — Come, will you?” 

But Ellen declined, preferring her plodding walk round the ring 
to any putting of herself forward. Presently Mr. Lindsay came 
in. It was the first time he had been there. His eyes soon singled 
out Ellen. 

“My daughter sits well,” he remarked to the riding-master. 

“ A merveille ! — Mademoiselle Lindesay does ride remarquable- 
ment pour une beginner — qui ne fait que commencer. Would it 
be possible that she has had no lessons before?” 

“ Why, yes — she has had lessons — of what sort I don’t know,” 
said Mr. Lindsay, going up to Ellen. “ How do you like it, Ellen ?” 


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537 


“ 1 don’t like it at all, sir.” 

“ I thought you were so fond of riding.” 

“ I don’t call this riding, sir.” 

“ Ha ! what do you call riding ? Here, M. De Courcy — won’t 
you have the goodness to put this young lady on another horse and 
see if she knows any thing about handling him.” 

“ With great pleasure !” M. De Courcy would do any thing that 
was requested of him. Ellen was taken out of the ring of walkers 
and mounted on a fine animal, and set by herself to have her skill 
tried in as many various ways as M. De Courcy’ s ingenuity could 
point out. Never did she bear herself more erectly ; never were her 
hand and her horse’s mouth on nicer terms of acquaintanceship; 
never, even to please her master, had she so given her whole soul 
to the single business of managing her horse and herself perfectly 
. well. She knew as little as she cared that a number of persons 
besides her friends were standing to look at her ; she thought of 
only two people there, Mr. Lindsay and her aunt ; and the riding- 
master, as his opinion might affect theirs. 

“ C’est tr&s bien, — c’est tr&s bien,” he muttered, — c’est par-faite- 
ment — Monsieur, mademoiselle votre fille has had good lessons — 
voilii qui est entierement comme il faut.” 

“ Assez bien,” said Mr. Lindsay smiling. “The little gypsy !” 

“ Mademoiselle,” said the riding-master as she paused before 
them, — “ pourquoi, wherefore have you stopped in your canter 
tantdt — a little while ago — et puis recommence?” 

“ Monsieur, he led with the wrong foot.” 

“ C’est 9a — justement !” he exclaimed. 

“ Have you practised leaping, Ellen?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Try her, M. De Courcy. Ho T high will you go, Ellen?” 

“As high as you please, sir,” said Ellen, leaning over and pat- 
ting her horse’s neck to hide her smile. 

“ How you look, child !” said Mr. Lindsay in a pleased tone. 
“ So this is what you call riding?” 

“ It is a little more like it, sir.” 

Ellen was tried with standing and running leaps, higher and 
higher, till Mr. Lindsay would have no more of it; and M. De 
Courcy assured him that his daughter had been taught by a very, 
accomplished rider, and there was little or nothing left for him to 
do; il n’y pouvait plus; — but he should be very happy to have 
her come there to practise, and show an example to his pupils. 

The very bright colour in Ellen’s face as she heard this might 
have been mistaken for the flush of gratified vanity: it was noth- 
ing less. Not one word of this praise did she take to herself, nor 
had she sought for herself ; — it was all for somebody else ; and 
perhaps so Lady Keith understood it, for she looked rather dis- 


538 


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comfited. But Mr. Lindsay was exceedingly pleased ; and prom- 
ised Ellen that as soon as the warm weather came she should have 
a horse and rides to her heart’s content. 


CHAPTER L. 

She was his care, his hope, and his delight, 

Most in his thought, and ever in his sight. 

Dryden. 

Ellen might now have been in some danger of being spoiled, — 
not indeed with over-indulgence, for that was not the temper of 
the family, — but from finding herself a person of so much conse- 
quence. She could not but feel that in the minds of every one of 
her three friends she was the object of greatest importance ; their 
thoughts and care were principally occupied with her. Even Lady 
Keith was perpetually watching, superintending, and admonishing ; 
though she every now and then remarked with a kind of surprise, 
that u really she scarcely ever had to say any thing to Ellen ; she 
thought she must know things by instinct.” To Mr. Lindsay and 
his mother she was the idol of life ; and except when by chance 
her will might cross theirs, she had what she wished and did what 
she pleased. 

But Ellen happily had two safeguards which effectually kept her 
from pride or presumption. 

One was her love for her brother and longing remembrance of 
him. There was no one to take his place, not indeed in her affec- 
tions, for that would have been impossible, but in the daily course 
of her life. She missed him in every thing. She had abundance 
of kindness and fondness shown her, but the sympathy was want- 
ing. She was talked to, but not with. No one now knew always 
what she was thinking of, nor if they did would patiently draw out 
her thoughts, canvass them, set them right or show them wrong. 
No one now could tell what she was feeling, nor had the art sweetly, 
in a way she scarce knew how, to do away with sadness, or dulness, 
or perverseness, and leave her spirits clear and bright as the noon- 
day. With all the petting and fondness she had from her new 
friends, Ellen felt alone. She was petted and fondled as a darling 
possession — a dear plaything — a thing to be cared for, taught, gov- 
erned, disposed of, with the greatest affection and delight ; but 
John s was a higher style of kindness, that entered into all her in- 
nermost feelings and wants ; and his was a higher style of author- 
ity too, that reached where theirs could never attain ; an authority 


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539 


Ellen always felt it utterly impossible to dispute ; it was sure to be 
exerted on the side of what was right ; and she could better have 
borne hard words from Mr. Lindsay than a glance of her brother’s 
eye. Ellen made no objection to the imperativeness of her new 
guardians ; it seldom was called up so as to trouble her, and she 
was not of late particularly fond of having her own way j but she 
sometimes drew comparisons. 

“ I could not any sooner — I could not as soon — have disobeyed 
John ; — and yet he never would have spoken to me as they do if 
I had.” 

u Some pride perhaps?” she said, remembering Mr. Dundas’s 
words ; — “ I should say a great deal — John isn’t proud ; — and yet 
— I don’t know — he isn’t proud as they are ; I wish I knew what 
kinds of pride are right and what wrong — he would tell me if he 
was here.” 

“What are you in a ‘brown study’ about, Ellen?” said Mr. 
Lindsay ? 

“I was thinking, sir, about different kinds of pride — I wish I 
knew the right from the wrong — or is there any good kind ?” 

“ All good, Ellen — all good,” said Mr. Lindsay, — “ provided 
you do not have too much of it.” 

“ Would you like me to be proud, sir?” 

“ Yes,” said he, laughing and pinching her cheek, “ as proud as 
you like ; if you only don’t let me see any of it.” 

Not very satisfactory ; but that was the way with the few ques- 
tions of any magnitude Ellen ventured to ask ; she was kissed and 
laughed at, called metaphysical or philosophical, and dismissed 
with no light on the subject. She sighed for her brother. The 
hours with M. Muller were the best substitute she had ; they were 
dearly prized by her, and, to say truth, by him. He had no 
family, he lived alone ; and the visits of his docile and intelligent 
little pupil became very pleasant breaks in the monotony of his 
home-life. Truly kind-hearted and benevolent, and a true lover 
of knowledge, he delighted to impart it. Ellen soon found she 
might ask him as many questions as she pleased, that were at all 
proper to the subject they were upon ; and he, amused and in- 
terested, was equally able and willing to answer her. Often when 
not particularly busy he allowed her hour to become two. Excel- 
lent hours for Ellen. M. Muller had made his proposition to Mr. 
Lindsay, partly from grateful regard for him, and partly to gratify 
the fancy he had taken to Ellen on account of her simplicity, 
intelligence, and good manners. This latter motive did not dis- 
appoint him. He grew very much attached to his little pupil ; an 
attachment which Ellen faithfully returned, both in kind, and by 
every trifling service that it could fall in her way to render him. 
Fine flowers and fruit, that if was her special delight to carry to 


540 


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M. Muller ; little jobs of copying, or setting in order some disorderly 
matters in his rooms, where he soon would trust her to do any 
thing; or a book from her father’s library; and once or twice 
when he was indisposed, reading to him as she did by the hour 
patiently, matters that could neither interest nor concern her. On 
the whole, and with good reason, the days when they were to 
meet were hailed with as much pleasure perhaps by M. Muller as 
by Ellen herself. 

Her other safeguard was the precious hour alone which she had 
promised John never to lose when she could help it. The only 
time she could have was the early morning before the rest of the 
family were up. To this hour, and it was often more than an 
hour, Ellen was faithful. Her little Bible was extremely precious 
now ; Ellen had never gone to it with a deeper sense of need ; and 
never did she find more comfort in being able to disburden her 
heart in prayer of its load of cares and wishes. Never more than 
now had she felt the preciousness of that Friend who draws closer 
to his children the closer they draw to him ; she had never re- 
alized more the joy of having him to go to. It was her special 
delight to pray for those loved ones she could do nothing else for ; 
it was a joy to think that He who hears prayer is equally present 
with all his people, and that though thousands of miles lie between 
the petitioner and the petitioned for, the breath of prayer may span 
the distance and pour blessings on the far-off head. The burden 
of thoughts and affections gathered during the twenty-three hours, 
was laid down in the twenty-fourth ; and Ellen could meet her 
friends at the breakfast-table with a sunshiny face. Little they 
thought where her heart had been, or where it had got its sun- 
shine. 

But notwithstanding this, Ellen had too much to remember and 
regret than to be otherwise than sober, — soberer than her friends 
liked. They noticed with sorrow that the sunshine wore off as the 
day rolled on ; — that though ready to smile upon occasion, her face 
always settled again into a gravity they thought altogether unsuit- 
able. Mrs. Lindsay fancied she knew the cause, and resolved to 
break it up. 

From the first of Ellen’s coming her grandmother had taken the 
entire charge of her toilet. Whatever Mrs. Lindsay’s notions in 
general might be as to the propriety of young girls learning to 
take care of themselves, Ellen was much too precious a plaything 
to be trusted to any other hands, even her own. At eleven o’clock 
regularly every day she went to her grandmother’s dressing-room 
for a very elaborate bathing and dressing; though not a very long 
one, for all Mrs. Lindsay’ s were energetic. Now, without any hint 
as to the reason, she was directed to come to her grandmother an 
hour before the breakfast time, to go through then the course of 


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541 


cold-water, sponging, and hair-gloving, that Mrs. Lindsay was ac- 
customed to administer at eleven. Ellen heard in silence, and 
obeyed, but made up her hour by rising earlier than usual, so as to 
have it before going to her grandmother. It was a little difficult 
at first, but she soon got into the habit of it, though the mornings 
were dark and cold. After a while it chanced that this came to 
Mrs. Lindsay’s ears, and Ellen was told to come to her as soon as 
she was out of bed in the morning. 

“But grandmother,” said Ellen, — “I am up a great while 
before you ; I should find you asleep ; don’t I come soon enough ?” 

“ What do you get up so early for ?” 

“ You know, ma’am — I told you some time ago. I want some 
time to myself.” 

“ It is not good for you to be up so long before breakfast, and 
in these cold mornings. Do not rise in future till I send for 
you.” 

“ But grandmother, — that is the only time for me — there isn’t 
an hour after breakfast that I can have regularly to myself ; and I 
cannot be happy if I do not have some time.” 

“ Let it be as I said,” said Mrs. Lindsay. 

“ Couldn’t you let me come to you at eleven o’clock again, 
ma’am? do , grandmother!” 

Mrs. Lindsay touched her lips ; a way of silencing her that 
Ellen particularly disliked, and which both Mr. Lindsay and his 
mother was accustomed to use. 

She thought a great deal on the subject, and came soberly to the 
conclusion that it was her duty to disobey. “ I promised John,” 
she said to herself, — “I will never break that promise ! I’ll do any 
thing rather. And besides, if I had not, it is just as much my 
duty — a duty that no one here has a right to command me against. 
I will do what I think right, come what may.” 

She could not without its coming to the knowledge of her 
grandmother. A week or rather two after the former conversation, 
Mrs. Lindsay made inquiries of Mason, her woman, who was 
obliged to confess that Miss Ellen’s light was always burning 
when she went to call her. 

“ Ellen,” said Mrs. Lindsay the same day, — “ have you obeyed 
me in what I told you the other morning ? — about lying in bed till 
you are sent for?” 

“ No, ma’am.” 

u You are frank ! to venture to tell me so. Why have you dis- 
obeyed me?” 

“ Because, grandmother, I thought it was right.” 

“ You think it is right to disobey, do you?” 

“ Yes, ma’am, if ” 

“ If what ?” 


46 


542 THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 

“ I mean, grandmother, there is One I must obey even before 
you.” 

“If what?” repeated Mrs. Lindsay. 

“ Please do not ask me, grandmother ; I don’t want to say 
that.” 

“ Say it at once, Ellen !” 

“ I thing it is right to disobey if I am told to do what is wrong,” 
said Ellen in a low voice. 

“ Are you to be the judge of right and wrong?” 

“ No, ma’am.” 

“Who then?” 

“ The Bible.” 

“ I do not know what is the reason,” said Mrs. Lindsay, “ that I 
cannot be very angry with you. Ellen, I repeat the order I gave 
you the other day. Promise me to obey.” 

“ I cannot, grandmother; I must have that hour; I cannot do 
without it.” 

“ So must I be obeyed, I assure you, Ellen. You will sleep in 
my room henceforth.” 

Ellen heard her in despair ; she did not know what to do. Ap- 
pealing was not to be thought of. There was, as she said, no time 
she could count upon after breakfast. During the whole day and 
evening she was either busy with her studies or masters, or in the 
company of her grandmother or Mr. Lindsay ; and if not there, 
liable to be called to them at any moment. Her grandmother’s 
expedient for increasing her cheerfulness had marvellous ill success. 
Ellen drooped under the sense of wrong, as well as the loss of her 
greatest comfort. For two days she felt and looked forlorn ; and 
smiling now seemed to be a difficult matter. Mr. Lindsay happened 
to be remarkably busy those two days, so that he did not notice 
what was going on. At the end of them, however, in the evening, 
he called Ellen to him, and whisperingly asked what was the matter. 

“Nothing, sir,” said Ellen, “only grandmother will not let me 
do something I cannot be happy without doing.” 

“ Is it one of the things you want to do because it is right, 
whether it is convenient or not?” he asked smiling. Ellen could 
not smile. 

“ Oh, father,” she whispered, putting her face close to his, “ if 
you would only get grandmother to let me do it !” 

The words were spoken with a sob, and Mr. Lindsay felt her 
warm tears upon his neck. He had, however, far too much respect 
for his mother to say any thing against her proceedings while Ellen 
was present ; he simply answered that she must do whatever her 
grandmother said. But when Ellen had left the room, which she 
did immediately, he took the matter up. Mrs. Lindsay explained, 
and insisted that Ellen was spoiling herself for life and the world 


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543 


by a set of dull religious notions that were utterly unfit for a child ; 
that she would very soon get over thinking about her habit of 
morning prayer, and would then do much better. Mr. Lindsay 
looked grave; but with Ellen’s tears yet wet upon his cheek, he 
could not dismiss the matter so lightly, and persisted in desiring that 
his mother should give up the point, which she utterly refused to do. 

Ellen meanwhile had fled to her own room. The moonlight was 
quietly streaming in through the casement ; it looked to her like 
an old friend. She threw herself down on the floor, close by the 
glass, and after some tears, which she could not help shedding, she 
raised her head and looked thoughtfully out. It was very seldom 
now that she had a chance of the kind ; she was rarely alone but 
when she was busy. 

“ I wonder if that same moon is this minute shining in at the 
glass door at home ? — no, to be sure it can’t this minute — what am 
I thinking of? — but it was there or will be there — let me see — east 
— west — it was there some time this morning I suppose ; looking 
right into our old sitting-room. Oh, moon, I wish I was in your 
place for once, to look in there too ! But it is all empty now — 
there’s nobody there — Mr. Humphreys would be in his study — how 
lonely, how lonely he must be ! Oh, I wish I was back there with 
him! — John isn’t there though — no matter — he will be, — and I 
could do so much for Mr. Humphreys in the meanwhile. He must 
miss me. I wonder where John is — nobody writes to me ; I should 
think some one might. I wonder if I am ever to see them again. 
Oh, he will come to see me surely before he goes home ! — but then 
he will have to go away without me again — I am fast now — fast 
enough — but oh ! am I to be separated from them for ever ! Well ! 
— I shall see them in heaven !” 

It was a “ Well” of bitter acquiescence, and washed down with 
bitter tears. 

“ Is it my bonny Miss Ellen?” said the voice of the house- 
keeper coming softly in ; — “ is my bairn sitting a’ her lane i’ the 
dark ? Why are ye no wi’ the rest o’ the folk, Miss Ellen ?” 

“ I like to be alone, Mrs. Allen, and the moon shines in here 
nicely.” 

“ Greeting !” exclaimed the old lady, drawing nearer, — “ I ken 
it by the sound o’ your voice ; — greeting eenow ! Are ye no weel, 
Miss Ellen ? What vexes my bairn ? Oh, but your father would 
be vexed an he kenned it !” 

“ Never mind, Mrs. Allen,” said Ellen ; 11 1 shall get over it 
directly ; don’t say any thing about it.” 

“But I’m wae to see you,” said the kind old woman, stooping 
down and stroking the head that again Ellen had bowed on her 
knees ; — “ will ye no tell me what vexes ye? Ye suld be as blithe 
as a bird the lang day.” 


544 


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“ I can’t, Mrs. Allen, while I am away from my friends.” 

“ Friends ! and wha has mair frinds than yoursel, Miss Ellen, 
or better frinds ? — father and mither and a’ ; where wad ye find 
tliae that will love you mair.” 

“ Ah, but I haven’t my brother !” sobbed Ellen. 

“ Your brither, Miss Ellen? An’ wha’s he ?” 

“ He’s every thing, Mrs. Allen ! he’s everything! I shall never 
be happy without him ! — never! never!” 

“ Hush, dear Miss Ellen ! for the love of a’ that’s gude ; — 
dinna talk that gate ! and dinna greet sae ! your father wad be 
sair vexed to hear ye or to see ye.” 

“ I cannot help it,” said Ellen ; — “ it is true.” 

“ It may be sae ; but dear Miss Ellen, dinna let it come to your 
father’s ken ; ye’re his very heart’s idol ; he disna merit aught but 
gude frae ye.” 

“ I know it, Mrs. Allen,” said Ellen weeping, and so I do love 
him — better than any body in the world, except two. But ob ! I 
want my brother ! — I don’t know how to be happy or good either 
without him. I want him all the while.” 

“ Miss Ellen, I kenned and loved your dear mither weel for 
mony a day — will ye mind if I speak a word to her bairn ?” 

“No, dear Mrs. Allen — I’ll thank you; — did you know my 
mother?” 

“ Wha suld if I didna ? she was brought up in my arms, and a 
dear lassie. Ye’re no muckle like her, Miss Ellen; — ye’re mair 
bonny than her ; and no a’ thegither sae frack ; — though she was 
douce and kind too.” 

“ I wish” — Ellen began, and stopped. 

“ My dear bairn, there is Ane abuve wha disposes a’ things for 
us ; and he isna weel pleased when his children fash themselves 
wi’ his dispensations. He lias ta’en and placed you here, for your 
ain gude I trust, — I’m sure it’s for the gude of us a’, — and if ye 
haena a’ things ye wad wish, Miss Ellen, ye hae Him ; dinna for- 
get that, my ain bairn.” 

Ellen returned heartily and silently the embrace of the old 
Scotchwoman, and when she left her, set herself to follow her 
advice. She tried to gather her scattered thoughts and smooth 
her ruffled feelings, in using this quiet time to the best advantage. 
At the end of half an hour she felt like another creature ; and 
began to refresh herself with softly singing some of her old 
hymns. 

The argument which was carried on in the parlour sunk at 
length into silence without coming to any conclusion. 

“ Where is Miss Ellen ?” Mrs. Lindsay asked of a servant that 
came in. 

“ She is up in her room, ma’am, singing.” 



11 Mr. Lindsay stood still at the door.” 

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545 


“ Tell her I want her.” 

“ No — stop,” said Mr. Lindsay ; — “ I’ll go myself.” 

Her door was a little ajar, and he softly opened it without dis- 
turbing her. Ellen was still sitting on the floor before the window, 
looking out through it, and in rather a low tone singing the last 
verse of the hymn “ Rock of Ages.” 

While I draw this fleeting breath, — 

When my eyelids close in death, — 

When I rise to worlds unknown, 

And behold thee on thy throne, — 

Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 

Let me hide myself in thee ! 

Mr. Lindsay stood still at the door. Ellen paused a minute, 
and then sung “ Jerusalem my happy home.” Her utterance was 
so distinct that he heard every word. He did not move till she 
had finished, and then he came softly in. 

“ Singing songs to the moon, Ellen ?” 

Ellen started and got up from the floor. 

“ No, sir ; I was singing them to myself.” 

“ Not entirely, for I heard the last one. Why do you make 
yourself sober singing such sad things?” 

“ I don’t, sir; they are not sad to me ; they are delightful. I 
love them dearly.” 

“ How came you to love them ? it is not natural for a child of 
your age. What do you love them for, my little daughter?” 

“Oh, sir, there are a great many reasons, — I don’t know how 
many.” 

“ I will have patience, Ellen ; I want to hear them all.” 

“ I love them because I love to think of the things the hymns 
are about, — I love the tunes, dearly, — and I like both the words 
and the tunes better, I believe, because I have sung them so often 
with friends.” 

“ Humph ! I guessed as much. Isn’t that the strongest reason 
of the three ?” 

“ I don’t know, sir ; I don’t think it is.” 

“ Is all your heart in America, Ellen, or have you any left to 
bestow on us ?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Not very much !” 

“ I love you , father,” said Ellen, laying her cheek gently along- 
side of his. 

“And your grandmother, Ellen?” said Mr. Lindsay, clasping 
his arms around her. 

“Yes, sir.” 

But he well understood that the “ yes” was fainter. 

“And your aunt? — speak, Ellen.” 
kk 46* 


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11 1 don’t love her as much as I wish I did,” said Ellen ; — “ I 
love her a little, I suppose. Oh, why do you ask me such a hard 
question, father?” 

“ That is something you have nothing to do with,” said Mr. 
Lindsay, half laughing. “Sit down here,” he added, placing her 
on his knee, “ and sing to me again.” 

Ellen was heartened by the tone of his voice, and pleased with 
the request. She immediately sang with great spirit a little 
Methodist hymn she had learned when a mere child. The wild air 
and simple words singularly suited each other. 

G Canaan — Bright Canaan — 

I am bound for the land of Canaan. 

0 Canaan ! it is my happy, happy home — 

1 am bound for the land of Canaan. 

“ Does that sound sad, sir?” 

“ Why yes, — I think it does, rather, Ellen. Does it make you 
feel merry?” 

“ Not merry , sir, — it isn’t merry ; but I like it very much.” 

“ The tune or the words?” 

“ Both, sir.” 

“ What do you mean by the land of Canaan ?” 

“ Heaven, sir.” 

“ And do you like to think about that ? at your age ?” 

“Why certainly, sir! Why not?” 

“ Why do you ?” 

“ Because it is a bright and happy place,” said Ellen, gravely ; 
— “ where there is no darkness, nor sorrow, nor death, neither pain 
nor crying ; — and my mother is there, and my dear Alice, and my 
Saviour is there ; and I hope I shall be there too.” 

“You are shedding tears now, Ellen.” 

“ And if I am, sir, it is not because I am unhappy. It doesn’t 
make me unhappy to think of these things — it makes me glad ; 
and the more I think of them the happier I am.” 

“ You are a strange child. I am afraid your grandmother is 
right, and that you are hurting yourself with poring over serious 
matters that you are too young for.” 

“ She would not think so if she knew,” said Ellen, sighing. “ I 
should not be happy at all without that, and you would not love 
me half so well, nor she either. Oh, father,” she exclaimed, 
pressing his hand in both her own and laying her face upon it, — 
“ do not let me be hindered in that ! forbid me any thing you 
please, but not that ! the better I learn to please my best Friend, 
the better I shall please you.” 

“ Whom do you mean by ‘ your best friend ?’ ” 

“ The Lord my Redeemer.” 


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“ Where did you get these notions?” said Mr. Lindsay, after a 
short pause. 

* From my mother, first, sir.” 

“ She had none of them when I knew her.” 

“ She had afterwards, then, sir; and oh !” — Ellen hesitated, — 
“ I wish every body had them too !” 

“My little daughter,” said Mr. Lindsay, affectionately kissing 
the cheeks and eyes which were moist again, — “ I shall indulge 
you in this matter. But you must keep your brow clear, or I shall 
revoke my grant. And you belong to me now ; and there are 
some things I want you to forget, and not remember, — you under- 
stand ? Now don’t sing songs to the moon any more to-night — 
good-night, my daughter.” 

“ They think religion is a strange melancholy thing,” said Ellen 
to herself as she went to bed ; — “ I must not give them reason to 
think so — I must let my rushlight burn bright — I must take care 
— I never had more need !” 

And with an earnest prayer for help to do so, she laid her head 
on the pillow. 

Mr. Lindsay told his mother he had made up his mind to let 
Ellen have her way for a while, and begged that she might return 
to her old room and hours again. Mrs. Lindsay would not hear 
of it. Ellen had disobeyed her orders, she said ; — she must take 
the consequences. 

“ She is a bold little hussy to venture it,” said Mr. Lindsay, — 
“ but I do not think there is any naughtiness in her heart.” 

“ No, not a bit. I could not be angry with her. It is only 
those preposterous notions she has got from somebody or other.” 

Mr. Lindsay said no more. Next morning he asked Ellen pri- 
vately what she did the first thing after breakfast. Practise on 
the piano for an hour, she said. 

“ Couldn’t you do it at any other time ?” 

“ Yes, sir, I could practise in the afternoon, only grandmother 
likes to have me with her.” 

“ Let it be done then, Ellen, in future.” 

“ And what shall I do with the hour after breakfast, sir?” 

“ Whatever you please,” said he smiling. 

Ellen thanked him in the way she knew he best liked, and grate- 
fully resolved he should have as little cause as possible to complain 
of her. Very little cause indeed did he or any one else have. No 
fault could be found with her performance of duty ; and her cheer- 
fulness was constant and unvarying. She remembered her brother’s 
recipe against loneliness and made use of it ; she remembered Mrs. 
Allen’s advice and followed it; she grasped the promises, “he that 
cometh to me shall never hunger,” — and “ seek and ye shall find,” 
— precious words that never yet disappointed any one ; and though 


548 


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tears might often fall that nobody knew of, and she might not be 
so merry as her friends would have liked to see her ; though her 
cheerfulness was touched with sobriety, they could not complain ; 
for her brow was always unruffled, her voice clear, her smile ready. 

After a while she was restored to her own sleeping-room again, 
and permitted to take up her former habits. 


CHAPTER LI. 

Other days come back on me 
With recollected music. 

Byron. 

Though nothing could be smoother than the general course of 
her life, Ellen’s principles were still now and then severely tried. 

Of all in the house, next to Mr. Lindsay, she liked the company 
of the old housekeeper best. She was a simple-minded Christian, 
a most benevolent and kind-hearted, and withal sensible and re- 
spectable person ; devotedly attached to the family, and very fond 
of Ellen in particular. Ellen loved, when she could, to get alone 
with her, and hear her talk of her mother’ s young days ; and she 
loved furthermore, and almost as much, to talk to Mrs. Allen of 
her own. Ellen could to no one else lisp a word on the subject; 
and without dwelling directly on those that she loved, she delighted 
to tell over to an interested listener the things she had done, seen, 
and felt, with them. 

“I wish that child was a little more like other people,” said 
Lady Keith one evening in the latter end of the winter. 

“ Humph !” said Mr. Lindsay, — “ I don’t remember at this mo- 
ment any one that I think she could resemble without losing more 
than she gained.” 

“ Oh, it’s of no use to talk to you about Ellen, brother ! You 
can take up things fast enough when you find them out, but you 
never will see with other people’s eyes.” 

“ What do your eyes see, Catherine?” 

“ She is altogether too childish for her years ; she is really a 
baby.” 

“ I don’t know,” said Mr. Lindsay smiling; “ you should ask M. 
Muller about that. He was holding forth to me for a quarter of 
an hour the other day, and could not stint in her praises. She will 
go on, he says, just as fast as he pleases to take her.” 

“ Oh, yes — in intelligence and so on, I know she is not wanting; 
that is not what I mean.” 

“ She is perfectly lady-like always,” said Mrs. Lindsay. 

“ Yes, I know that, — and perfectly child-like too.” 


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“ I like that,” said Mr. Lindsay ; “ I have no fancy for your 
grown-up little girls.” 

“ Well !” said Lady Keith in despair, “ you may like it; but I 
tell you she is too much of a child nevertheless, — in other ways. 
She hasn’t an idea of a thousand things. It was only the other 
day she was setting out to go, at mid-day, — through the streets 
with a basket on her arm — some of that fruit for M. Muller I 
believe.” 

“ If she has any fault,” said Mr. Lindsay, “ it is want of pride, 
— but I don’t know — I can’t say I wish she had more of it.” 

“ Oh, no, of course ! I suppose not. And it doesn’t take any 
thing at all to make the tears come in her eyes ; the other day I 
didn’t know whether to laugh or be vexed at the way she went on 
with a kitten, for half an hour or more. I wish you had seen her ! 
I am not sure she didn’t cry over that. Now I suppose the next 
thing, brother, you will go and make her a present of one.” 

“ If you have no heavier charges to bring,” said Mr. Lindsay 
smiling, “ I’ll take breath and think about it.” 

“ But she isn’t like any body else, — she don’t care for young 
companions, — she don’t seem to fancy any one out of the family 
unless it is old Mrs. Allen, and she is absurd about her. You 
know she is not very well lately, and Ellen goes to see her I know 
every day, regularly ; and there are the Gordons and Carpenters 
and Murrays and Mclntoshes — she sees them continually, but I 
don’t think she takes a great deal of pleasure in their company. 
The fact is, she is too sober.” 

“She has as sweet a smile as I ever saw,” said Mr. Lindsay, — 
“ and as hearty a laugh, when she does laugh ; she is none of your 
gigglers.” 

“ But when she does laugh,” said Lady Keith, “ it is not when 
other people do. I think she is generally grave when there is most 
merriment around her.” 

“I love to hear her laugh,” said Mrs. Lindsay; “it is in such 
a low sweet tone, and seems to come so from the very spring of 
enjoyment. Yet I must say I think Catherine is half right.” 

“ With half an advocate,” said Lady Keith, “ I shall not effect 
much.” 

Mr. Lindsay uttered a low whistle. At this moment the door 
opened, and Ellen came gravely in, with a book in her hand. 

“ Come here, Ellen,” said Mr. Lindsay holding out his hand, — 
“here’s your aunt says you don’t like any body — how is it? are 
you of an unsociable disposition?” 

Ellen’s smile would have been a sufficient apology to him for a 
much graver fault. 

“ Any body out of the house, I meant,” said Lady Keith. 

“ Speak, Ellen, and clear yourself,” said Mr. Lindsay. 


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“I like some people,” said Ellen smiling; — “I don’t think I 
like a great many people very much.” 

“But you don’t like young people,” said Lady Keith, — “that 
is what I complain of; and it’s unnatural. Now there’s the other 
day, when you went to ride with Miss Gordon and her brother, and 
Miss MacPherson and her brother — I heard you say you were not 
sorry to get home. Now where will you find pleasanter young 
people?” 

“ Why don’t you like them, Ellen?” said Mrs. Lindsay. 

“ I do like them, ma’am, tolerably.” 

“ What does ‘ tolerably’ mean ?” 

“I should have liked my ride better the other day,” said Ellen, 
“if they had talked about sensible things.” 

“Nonsense!” said Lady Keith. “ Society cannot be made up 
of M. Mullers.” 

“ What did they talk about, Ellen ?’ ’ said Mr. Lindsay, who 
seemed amused. 

“ About partners in dancing, — at least the ladies did, — and 
dresses, and different gentlemen, and what this one said and the 
other one said, — it wasn’t very amusing to me.” 

Mr. Lindsay laughed. “ And the gentlemen, Ellen ; how did 
you like them ?” 

“ I didn’t like them particularly, sir.” 

“ What have you against them , Ellen ?” 

“ I don’t wish to say any thing against them, aunt Keith.” 

“ Come, come, — speak out.” 

“ I didn’t like their talking, sir, any better than the ladies, and 
besides that, I don’t think they are very polite.” 

“Why not?” said Mr. Lindsay, highly amused. 

“I don’t think it was very polite,” said Ellen, “for them to sit 
still on their horses when I went out, and let Brocklesby help me 
to mount. They took me up at M. Muller’s, you know, sir; M. 
Muller had been obliged to go out and leave me?” 

Mr. Lindsay threw a glance at his sister which she rather re- 
sented.^ 

“And pray what do you expect, Ellen?” said she. “ You are 
a mere child — do you think you ought to be treated as a woman ?” 

“ I don’t wish to be treated as any thing but a child, aunt Keith.” 

But Ellen remembered well one day at home when John had been 
before the door on horseback and she had run out to give him a 
message, — his instantly dismounting to hear it. “ And I was more 
a child then,” she thought, — “ and he wasn’t a stranger.” 

“ Whom do you like, Ellen?” inquired Mr. Lindsay, who looked 
extremely satisfied with the result of the examination. 

“ I like M. Muller, sir.” 

“ Nobody else ?” 


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551 


“Mrs. Allen.” 

“ There !” exclaimed Lady Keith. 

“ Have you come from her room just now?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ What’s your fancy for going there?” 

“ I like to hear her talk, sir, and to read to her ; it gives her a 
great deal of pleasure ; — and I like to talk to her.” 

“ What do you talk about?” 

“ She talks to me about my mother” — 

“ And you ?” 

“I like to talk to her about old times,” said Ellen, changing 
colour. 

“Profitable conversation!” said Mrs. Lindsay. 

“ You will not go to her room any more, Ellen,” said Mr. 
Lindsay. 

In great dismay at what Mrs. Allen would think, Ellen began a 
remonstrance. But only one word was uttered ; Mr. Lindsay’ s 
hand was upon her lips. He next took the book she still held. 

“ Is this what you have been reading to her?” 

Ellen bowed in answer. 

“ Who wrote all this?” 

Before she could speak he had turned to the front leaf and read, 
“ To my little sister.” He quietly put the book in his pocket; and 
Ellen as quietly left the room. 

“ I am glad you have said that,” said Lady Keith. “ You are 
quick enough when you see any thing for yourself, but you never 
will believe other people.” 

“ There is nothing wrong here,” said Mr. Lindsay, — “ only I will 
not have her going back to those old recollections she is so fond of. 
I wish I could make her drink Lethe !” 

“ What is the book ?” said Mrs. Lindsay. 

“ I hardly know,” said he, turning it over, — “ except it is from 
that person that seems to have obtained such an ascendency over 
her — it is full of his notes — it is a religious work.” 

“ She reads a great deal too much of that sort of thing,” said 
Mrs. Lindsay. “I wish you would contrive to put a stop to it. 
You can do it better than any one else ; she is very fond of you.” 

That was not a good argument. Mr. Lindsay was silent ; his 
thoughts went back to the conversation held that evening in Ellen’s 
room, and to certain other things ; and perhaps he was thinking 
that if religion had much to do with making her what she was, it 
was a tree that bore good fruits. 

“I think,” said Lady Keith, “that is one reason why she takes 
so little to the young people she sees. I have seen her sit perfectly 
grave when they were all laughing and talking around her — it 
really looks singular — I don’t like it — I presume she would have 


552 


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thought it wicked to laugh with them. And the other night ; — I 
missed her from the younger part of the company, where she 
should have been, and there she was in the other room with M. 
Muller and somebody else, — gravely listening to their conver- 
sation !” 

“I saw her,” said Mr. Lindsay smiling, — “ and she looked any 
thing but dull or sober. I would rather have her gravity, after 
all, Catherine, than any body else’s merriment I know.” 

“ 1 wish she had never been detained in America after the time 
when she should have come to us,” said Mrs. Lindsay. 

“ I wish the woman had what she deserves that kept back the 
letters !” said Mr. Lindsay. 

“ Yes indeed !” said his sister ; — “ and I have been in continual 
fear of a visit from that very person that you say gave Ellen the 
book.” 

“ He isn’t here !” said Mr. Lindsay. 

“ I don’t know where he is; — but he was on this side of the 
water, at the time Ellen came on ; so she told me.” 

“ I wish he was in Egypt !” 

“ I don’t intend he shall see her if he comes,” said Lady Keith, 
“ if I can possibly prevent it. I gave Porterfield orders, if any 
one asked for her, to tell me immediately, and not her upon any 
account; but nobody has come hitherto, and I am in hopes none 
will.” 

Mr. Lindsay rose and walked up and down the room with folded 
arms in a very thoughtful style. 

Ellen with some difficulty bore herself as usual throughout the 
next day and evening, though constantly on the rack to get pos- 
session of her book again. It was not spoken of nor hinted at. 
When another morning came she could stand it no longer ; she 
went soon after breakfast into Mr. Lindsay’s study, where he was 
writing. Ellen came behind him and laying both her arms over 
his shoulders, said in his ear, 

“ Will you let me have my book again, father?” 

A kiss was her only answer. Ellen waited. 

“Go to the bookcases,” said Mr. Lindsay presently, “ or to the 
bookstore, and choose out any thing you like, Ellen, instead.” 

“ I wouldn’t exchange it for all that is in them !” she answered 
with some warmth, and with the husky feeling coming in her 
throat. Mr. Lindsay said nothing. 

“At any rate,” whispered Ellen after a minute, “you will not 
destroy it, or do any thing to it ? — you will take care of it and let 
me have it again, won’t you, sir?” 

“ I will try to take care of you, my daughter.” 

Again Ellen paused ; and then came round in front of him to 
plead to more purpose. 


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553 


“ I will do any thing in the world for yon, sir,” she said earn- 
estly, “ if you will give me my book again.” 

“ You must do any thing in the world for me,” said he, smiling 
and pinching her cheek, — “ without that.” 

“ But it is mine !” Ellen ventured to urge, though trembling. 

“ Come, come !” said Mr. Lindsay, his tone changing, — “ and 
you are mine, you must understand.” 

Ellen stood silent, struggling, between the alternate surgings of 
passion and checks of prudence and conscience. But at last the 
wave rolled too high and broke. Clasping her hands to her face, 
she exclaimed, not indeed violently, but with sufficient energy of 
expression, “ Oh, it’s not right ! — it’s not right !” 

“ G-o to your room and consider of that,” said Mr. Lindsay. “ I 
do not wish to see you again to-day, Ellen.” 

Ellen was wretched. Not from grief at her loss merely ; that 
she could have borne ; that had not even the greatest share in her 
distress ; she was at war with herself. Her mind was in a perfect 
turmoil. She had been a passionate child in earlier days ; under 
religion’s happy reign that had long ceased to be true of her; it 
was only very rarely that she or those around her were led to re- 
member or suspect that it had once been the case. She was sur- 
prised and half frightened at herself now, to find the strength of 
the old temper suddenly roused. She was utterly and exceedingly 
out of humour with Mr. Lindsay, and consequently with every 
body and every thing else ; consequently, conscience would not 
give her a moment’s peace ; consequently, that day was a long and 
bitter fight betwixt right and wrong. Duties were neglected, be- 
cause she could not give her mind to them ; then they crowded 
upon her notice at undue times ; all was miserable confusion. In 
vain she would try to reason and school herself into right feeling ; 
at one thought of her lost treasure passion would come flooding up 
and drown all her reasonings and endeavours. She grew absolutely 
weary. 

But the day passed and the night came, and she went to bed 
without being able to make up her mind ; and she arose in the 
morning to renew the battle. 

“ How long is this miserable condition to last!” she said to her- 
self. “ Till you can entirely give up your feeling of resentment, 
and apologize to Mr. Lindsay,” said conscience. “Apologize! — 
but I haven’t done wrong.” “Yes, you have,” said conscience; 
“you spoke improperly; he is justly displeased; and you must 
make an apology before there can be any peace.” “ But I said the 
truth — it is not right — it is not right ! it is wrong ; and am / to go 
and make an apology !— I can’t do it.” “ Yes, for the wrong you 
have done,” said conscience, — “ that is all your concern. And he 
has a right to do what he pleases with you and yours, and he may 


554 


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have his own reasons for what he has done ; and he loves you 
very much, and you ought not to let him remain displeased with 
you one moment longer than you can help — he is in the place of 
a father to you, and you owe him a child’s duty.” 

But pride and passion still fought against reason and conscience, 
and Ellen was miserable. The dressing-bell rang. 

“ There, I shall have to go down to breakfast directly, and they 
will see how I look, — they will see I am angry and ill-humoured. 
Well I ought to be angry ! But what will they think then of my 
religion ? — is my rushlight burning bright ? am I honouring Christ 
now ? — is this the way to make his name and his truth lovely in 
their eyes? Oh, shame! shame! — I have enough to humble 
myself for. And all yesterday, at any rate, they know I was 
angry.” 

Ellen threw herself upon her knees ; and when she rose up the 
spirit of pride was entirely broken, and resentment had died with 
self-justification. 

The breakfast-bell rang before she was quite ready. She was 
afraid she could not see Mr. Lindsay until he should be at the 
table. “ But it shall make no difference,” she said to herself, — 
“ they know I have offended him — it is right they should hear 
what I have to say.” 

They were all at the table. But it made no difference. Ellen 
went straight to Mr. Lindsay, and laying one hand timidly in his 
and the other on his shoulder, she at once humbly and frankly 
confessed that she had spoken as she ought not the day before, 
and that she was very sorry she had displeased him, and begged 
his forgiveness. It was instantly granted. 

“ You are a good child, Ellen,” said Mr. Lindsay as he fondly 
embraced her. 

“ Oh, no, sir ! — don’t call me so — I am every thing in the world 
but that.” 

“ Then all the rest of the world are good children. Why didn’t 
you come to me before ?” 

“ Because I "couldn’t, sir — I felt wrong all day yesterday.” 

Mr. Lindsay laughed and kissed her, and bade her sit down and 
eat her breakfast. 

It was about a month after this that he made her a present of a 
beautiful little watch. Ellen’s first look was of great delight ; the 
second was one of curious doubtful expression, directed to his face, 
half tendering the watch back to him as she saw that he under- 
stood her. 

“ Why,” said he smiling, “do you mean to say you would 
rather have that than this?” 

“ A great deal !” 

“No,” said he, hanging the watch round her neck, — “you shall 


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not have it ; but you may make your mind easy, for I have it safe, 
and it shall come back to you again some time or other.” 

With this promise Ellen was obliged to be satisfied. 

The summer passed in the enjoyment of all that wealth, of 
purse and of affection both, could bestow upon their darling. 
Early in the season the family returned to the Braes. Ellen liked 
it there much better than in the city ; there was more that re- 
minded her of old times. The sky and the land, though different 
from those she best loved, were yet but another expression of 
nature’s face ; it was the same face still ; and on many a sunbeam 
Ellen travelled across the Atlantic.* She was sorry to lose M. 
Muller, but she could not have kept him in Edinburgh ; he quitted 
Scotland about that time. 

Other masters attended her in the country, or she went to Edin- 
burgh to attend them. Mr. Lindsay liked that very well ; he was 
often there himself, and after her lesson he loved to have her with 
him in the library and at dinner and during the drive home. Ellen 
liked it because it was so pleasant to him ; and besides, there was 
a variety about it, and the drives were always her delight, and she 
chose his company at any time rather than that of her aunt and 
grandmother. So, many a happy day that summer had she and 
Mr. Lindsay together ; and many an odd pleasure in the course of 
them did he find or make for her. Sometimes it was a new book, 
sometimes a new sight, sometimes a new trinket. According to 
his promise, he had purchased her a fine horse ; and almost daily 
Ellen was upon his back, and with Mr. Lindsay in the course of 
the summer scoured the country far and near. Every scene of any 
historic interest within a good distance of “ the Braes” was visited, 
and some of them again and again. Pleasures of all kinds were at 
Ellen’s disposal ; and to her father and grandmother she was truly 
the lighkof the eyes. 

And Ellen was happy ; but it was not all these things, nor even 
her affection for Mr. Lindsay, that made her so. He saw her calm 
sunshiny face and busy happy demeanour, and fancied, though he 
had sometimes doubts about it, that she did not trouble herself 
much with old recollections, or would in time get over them. It 
was not so. Ellen never forgot ; and sometimes when she seemed 
busiest and happiest, it was the thought of an absent and distant 
friend that was nerving her energies and giving colour to her cheek. 
Still, as at first, it was in her hour alone that Ellen laid down care 
and took up submission ; it was that calmed her brow and bright- 
ened her smile. And though now and then she shed bitter tears, 
and repeated her despairing exclamation, “ Well ! I will see him in 


* “ Then by a sunbeam I will climb to thee.” — George Herbert. 


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heaven !” — in general she lived on hope, and kept at the bottom 
of her heart some of her old feeling of confidence. 

Perhaps her brow grew somewhat meeker and her smile less 
bright as the year rolled on. Months flew by, and brought her no 
letters. Ellen marvelled and sorrowed in vain. One day mourn- 
ing over it to Mrs. Allen, the good housekeeper asked her if her 
friends knew her address ? Ellen at first said “to be sure,” but 
after a few minutes’ reflection was obliged to confess that she was 
not certain about it. It would have been just like Mr. Hum- 
phreys to lose sight entirely of such a matter, and very natural for 
her, in her grief and confusion of mind and inexperience, to be 
equally forgetful. She wrote immediately to Mr. Humphreys and 
supplied the defect ; and hope brightened again. Once before she 
had written, on the occasion of the refunding her expenses. Mr. 
Lindsay and his mother were very prompt to do this, though Ellen 
could not tell what the exact amount might be ; they took care to 
be on the safe side, and sent more than enongh. Ellen’s mind had 
changed since she came to Scotland ; she was sorry to have the 
money go ; she understood the feeling with which it was sent, and 
it hurt her. 

Two or three months after the date of her last letter, she re- 
ceived at length one from Mr. Humphreys, a long, very kind, and 
very wise one. She lived upon it for a good while. Mr. Lindsay’s 
bills were returned. Mr. Humphreys declined utterly to accept 
them, telling Ellen that he looked upon her as his own child up to 
the time that her friends took her out of his hands, and that he 
owed her more than she owed him. Ellen gave the money, she 
dared not give the whole message, to Mr. Lindsay. The bills were 
instantly and haughtily re-enclosed and sent back to America. 

Still nothing was heard from Mr. John. Ellen wondered, waited, 
wept; sadly quieted herself into submission, and as time.went on, 
clung faster and faster to her Bible and the refuge she found there. 


CHAPTER LII. 


Hon . — Why didn’t you show him up, blockhead ? 

Butler . — Show him up, sir ? With all my heart, sir. 

Up or down, all’s one to me. 

Good-natured Man. 

One evening, it was New Year’s eve, a large party was expected 
at Mr. Lindsay’s. Ellen was not of an age to go abroad to parties, 
but at home her father and grandmother never could bear to do 
without her when they had company. Generally, Ellen liked it 


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557 


very much ; not called upon to take any active part herself, she 
had leisure to observe and enjoy in quiet; and often heard music, 
and often by Mr. Lindsay’s side listened to conversation, in which 
she took great pleasure. To-night, however, it happened that 
Ellen’s thoughts were running on other things ; and Mrs. Lindsay’s 
woman, who had come in to dress her, was not at all satisfied with 
her grave looks and the little concern she seemed to take in what 
was going on. 

“ I wish, Miss Ellen, you’d please hold your head up, and look 
somewhere — I don’t know when I’ll get your hair done if you keep 
it down so.” 

“ Oh, Mason, I think that’ll do — it looks very well — you needn’t 
do any thing more.” 

“ I beg your pardon, Miss Ellen, but you know it’s your grand- 
mother that must be satisfied, and she will have it just so ; — 
there, — now that’s going to look lovely; — but indeed Miss Ellen 
she won’t be pleased if you carry such a soberish face down 
stairs, — and what will the master say ! Most young ladies would 
be as bright as a bee at being going to see so many people, and 
indeed it’s what you should.” 

“ I had rather see one or two persons than one or two hundred,” 
said Ellen, speaking half to herself and half to Mrs. Mason. 

“ Well, for pity’s sake, Miss Ellen, dear, if you can, don’t look 
as if it was a funeral it was. There ! ’tain’t much trouble to fix 
you, anyhow — if you’d only care a little more about it, it would 
be a blessing. Stop till I fix this lace. The master will call you 
his white rose-bud to-night, sure enough.” 

“That’s nothing new,” said Ellen, half smiling. 

Mason left her ; and feeling the want of something to raise her 
spirits, Ellen sorrowfully went to her Bible, and slowly turning it 
over, looked along its pages to catch a sight of something cheering 
before she went down stairs. 

“ This God is our God for ever and ever : he will he our guide 
even unto death .” 

“Isn’t that enough?” thought Ellen, as her eyes filled in 
answer. “ It ought to be — John would say it was — oh ! where 
is he !” 

She went on turning leaf after leaf. 

“ 0 Lord of hosts , blessed is the man that trusteth in thee!” 

“ That is true surely,” she thought. “ And I do trust in him — 
I am blessed — I am happy, come what may. He will let nothing 
come to those that trust in him but what is good for them — if he 
is my God I have enough to make me happy — I ought to be 
happy — I will be happy ! — I will trust him, and take what he gives 
me ; and try to leave, as John used to tell me, my affairs in his 
hand.” 


47 * 


558 


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For a minute tears flowed ; then they were wiped away ; and the 
smile she gave Mr. Lindsay when she met him in the hall was not 
less bright than usual. 

The company were gathered, but it was still early in the evening, 
when a gentleman came who declined to enter the drawing-room, 
and asked for Miss Lindsay. 

“ Miss Lindsay is engaged.” 

“ An’ what for suld ye say sae, Mr. Porterfield?” cried the voice 
of the housekeeper, who was passing in the hall, — “ when ye ken 
as weel as I do that Miss Ellen ” 

The butler stopped her with saying something about “ my lady,” 
and repeated his answer to the gentleman. 

The latter wrote a word or two on a card which he drew from 
his pocket, and desired him to carry it to Miss Ellen. He carried 
it to Lady Keith. 

“What sort of a person, Porterfield?” said Lady Keith, crum- 
pling the paper in her fingers ; and withdrawing a little from the 
company. 

“ Uncommon fine gentleman, my lady,” Porterfield answered in 
a low tone. 

“A gentleman?” said Lady Keith inquiringly. 

“ Certain, my lady ! — and as up and down spoken as if he was a 
prince of the blood ; he’s somebody that is not accustomed to be 
said ‘no’ to, for sure.” 

Lady Keith hesitated. Recollecting however that she had just 
left Ellen safe in the music-room, she made up her mind ; and desired 
Porterfield to show the stranger in. As he entered, unannounced, 
her eyes unwillingly verified the butler’s judgment; and to the 
inquiry whether he might see Miss Lindsay she answered very 
politely, though with regrets that Miss Lindsay was engaged. 

“May I be pardoned for asking,” said the stranger, with the 
slightest possible approach to a smile, “ whether that decision is 
imperative? I leave Scotland to-morrow — my reasons for wishing 
to see Miss Lindsay this evening are urgent.” 

Lady Keith could hardly believe her ears, or command her 
countenance to keep company with her expressions of “ sorrow that 
it was impossible — Miss Lindsay could not have the pleasure that 
evening.” 

“ May I beg then to know at what hour I may hope to see her 
to-morrow ?” 

Hastily resolving that Ellen should on the morrow accept a long- 
given invitation, Lady Keith answered that “she would not be in 
town — she would leave Edinburgh at an early hour.” 

The stranger bowed and withdrew ; that was all the bystanders 
saw. But Lady Keith, who had winced under an eye that she 
could not help fancying read her too well, saw that in his parting 


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559 


look which made her uneasy ; beckoning a servant who stood near, 
she ordered him to wait upon that gentleman to the door. 

The man obeyed ; but the stranger did not take his cloak and 
made no motion to go. 

“ No, sir ! not that way,” he said sternly, as the servant laid his 
hand on the lock ; — “ show me to Miss Lindsay !” 

“ Miss Ellen ?” said the man doubtfully, coming back, and think- 
ing from the gentleman’s manner that he must have misunderstood 
Lady Keith ; — “ where is Miss Ellen, Arthur?” 

The person addressed threw his head back towards the door he 
had just come from on the other side of the hall. 

“This way, sir, if you please, — what name, sir?” 

“ No name — stand back !” said the stranger as he entered. 

There were a number of people gathered round a lady who was 
at the piano singing. Ellen was there in the midst of them. The 
gentleman advanced quietly to the edge of the group and stood 
there without being noticed; Ellen’s eyes were bent on the floor. 
The expression of her face touched and pleased him greatly ; it was 
precisely what he wished to see. Without having the least shadow 
of sorrow upon it, there was in all its lines that singular mixture 
of gravity and sweetness that is never seen but where religion and 
discipline have done their work well ; the writing of the wisdom 
that looks soberly, and the love that looks kindly, on all things. 
He was not sure at first whether she were intently listening to the 
music, or whether her mind was upon something far different and 
far away ; he thought the latter. He was right. Ellen at the 
moment had escaped from the company and the noisy sounds of 
the performer at her side ; and while her eye was curiously tracing 
out the pattern of the carpet, her mind was resting itself in one of 
the verses she had been reading that same evening. Suddenly, 
and as it seemed, from no connection with any thing in or out of 
her thoughts, there came to her mind the image of John as she 
had seen him that first evening she ever saw him, at Carra-carra, 
when she looked up from the boiling chocolate and espied him, — 
standing in an attitude of waiting near the door. Ellen at first 
wondered how that thought should have come into her head just 
then ; the next moment, from a sudden impulse, she raised her 
eyes to search for the cause and saw John’s smile. 

It would not be easy to describe the change in Ellen’s face. 
Lightning makes as quick and as brilliant an illumination, but 
lightning does not stay. With a spring she reached him, and 
seizing both his hands drew him out of the door near which they 
were standing ; and as soon as they were hidden from view threw 
herself into his arms in an agony of joy. Before however either 
of them could say a word, she had caught his hand again, and led 
him back along, the hall to the private staircase ; she mounted it 


560 


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rapidly to her room ; and there again she threw herself into his 
arms, exclaiming, “ Oh, John ! — my dear John ! my dear brother !” 

But neither smiles nor words would do for the overcharged heart. 
The tide of joy ran too strong, and too much swelled from the open 
sources of love and memory, to keep any bounds. And it kept 
none. Ellen sat down, and bowing her head on the arm of the 
sofa wept with all the vehement passion of her childhood, quivering 
from head to foot with convulsive sobs. John might guess from 
the outpouring now how much her heart had been secretly gather- 



ing for months past. For a little while he walked up and down 
the room ; but this excessive agitation he was not willing should 
continue. He said nothing ; sitting down beside Ellen on the sofa, 
he quietly possessed himself of one of her hands; and when in 
her excitement the hand struggled to get away again, it was not 
permitted. Ellen understood that very well and immediately 
checked herself. Better than words, the calm firm grasp of his 
hand quieted her. Her sobbing stilled ; she turned from the arm 
of the sofa, and leaning her head upon him took his hand in both 



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561 


hers and pressed it to her lips as if she were half beside herself. 
But that was not permitted to last either, for his hand quickly im- 
prisoned hers again. There was silence still. Ellen could not look 
up yet, and neither seemed very forward to speak ; she sat gradu- 
ally quieting down into fulness of happiness. 

“I thought you never would come, John,” at length Ellen half 
whispered, half said. 

“ And I cannot stay now. I must leave you to-morrow, Ellen.” 

Ellen started up and looked up now. 

“ Leave me ! For how long? Where are you going?” 

“ Home.” 

“To America!” — Ellen’s heart died within her. Was this the 
end of all her hopes ? did her confidence end here ? She shed no 
tears now. He could see that she grew absolutely still from intense 
feeling. 

“ What’s the matter, Elbe?” said the low gentle tones she so 
well remembered ; — “ I am leaving you but for a time. I must go 
home now, but if I live you will see me again.” 

“ Oh, I wish I was going with you !” Ellen exclaimed, bursting 
into tears. 

“My dear Elbe !” said her brother in an altered voice, drawing 
her again to his arms, — “ you cannot wish it more than I !” 

“ I never thought you would leave me here, John.” 

“Neither would I, if I could help it; neither will I a minute 
longer than I can help ; but we must both wait, my own Elbe. Do 
not cry so, for my sake !” 

“ Wait? — till when?” said Ellen, not a little reassured. 

“ I have no power now to remove you from your legal guardians, 
and you have no right to choose for yourself.” 

“And when shall I?” 

“In a few years.” 

“ A few years! — But in the meantime, John, what shall I do 
without you ? — If I could see you once in a while — but there is no 
one here — not a single one — to help me to keep right; no one 
talks to me as you used to ; and I am all the while afraid I shall 
go wrong in something; what shall I do?” 

“ What the weak must always do, Elbe, — seek for strength where 
it may be had.” 

“ And so I do, John,” said Ellen weeping, — “ but I want you, — 
oh how much !” 

“ Are you not happy here ?” 

“ Yes — I am happy — at least I thought I was half an hour ago, 
— as happy as I can be. I have every thing to make me happy, 
except what would do it.” 

“We must both have recourse to our old remedy against sorrow 
and loneliness — you have not forgotten the use of it, Elbe?” 

II 


562 


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“ No, John,” said Ellen, meeting his eyes with a tearful smile. 

“ They love you here, do they not?” 

“ Very much — too much.” 

“ And you love them ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ That’s a doubtful ‘ yes.’ ” 

“I do love my father, — very much ; and my grandmother too, 
though not so much. I cannot help loving them, — they love me 
so. But they are so unlike you !” 

“ That is not much to the purpose, after all,” said John smiling. 
“ There are varieties of excellence in the world.” 

“ Oh, yes, but that isn’t what I mean ; it isn’t a variety of ex- 
cellence. They make me do every thing that they have a mind, — 
I don’t mean,” she added smiling, “ that^iatf is not like you, — but 
you always had a reason ; they are different. My father makes 
me drink wine every now and then, — I don't like to do it, and he 
knows I do not, and I think that is the reason I have to do it.” 

“ That is not a matter of great importance, Ellie, provided they 
do not make you do something wrong.” 

“ They could not do that I hope : and there is another thing 
they cannot make me do.’ 

“ What is that ?” 

“ Stay here when you will take me away.” 

There was a few minutes’ thoughtful pause on both sides. 

“You are grown, Ellie,” said John, — “ you are not the child I 
left you.” 

“ I don’t know,” said Ellen smiling, — “ it seems to me I am 
just the same.” 

Cl Let me see — look at me !” 

She raised her face, and amidst smiles and tears its look was not 
less clear and frank than his was penetrating. “ Just the same,” 
was the verdict of her brother’s eyes a moment afterwards. Ellen’s 
smile grew bright as she read it there. 

“ Why have you never come or written before, John?” 

“ I did not know where you were. I have not been in England 
for many months till quite lately, and I could not get your address. 
I think my father was without it for a long time, and when at last 
he sent it to me, the letter miscarried — never reached me — there 
were delays upon delays.” 

u And when did. you get it ?” 

“I preferred coming to writing.” 

“ And now you must go home so soon !” 

“ I must, Ellie. My business has lingered on a great while, and 
it is quite time I should return. I expect to sail next week — Mrs. 
Gillespie is going with me — her husband stays behind till spring.” 

Ellen sighed. 


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563 


u I made a friend of a friend of yours whom I met in Switzer- 
land last summer — M. Muller.” 

u Muller! did you ! Oh, I’m very glad ! I am very glad 
you know him— he is the best friend I have got here, after my 
father. I don’t know what I should have done without him.” 

“ I have heard him talk of you,” said John smiling. 

a He has just come back ; he was to be here this evening.” 

There was a pause again. 

“ It does not seem right to go home without you, Ellie,” said 
her brother then. “ I think you belong to me more than to any 
body.” 

“That is exactly what I think!” said Ellen with one of her 
bright looks, and then bursting into tears ; — ‘ ‘ I am very glad you 
think so too ! I will always do whatever you tell me — just as I 
used to — no matter what any body else says.” 

“ Perhaps I shall try you in two or three things, Ellie.” 

“Will you! in what? Oh, it would make me so happy — so 
much happier — if I could be doing something to please you. I 
wish I was at home with you again !” 

“ I will bring that about, Ellie, by and by, if you make your 
words good.” 

“ I shall be happy then,” said Ellen, her old confidence standing 
stronger than ever — “ because I know you will if you say so. 
Though how you will manage it I cannot conceive. My father 
and grandmother and aunt cannot bear to hear me speak of 
America. I believe they would be glad if there wasn’t such a 
place in the world. They would not even let me think of it if 
they could help it ; I never dare mention your name, or say a word 
about old times. They are afraid of my loving any body I 
believe. They want to have me all to themselves.” 

“ What will they say to you then, Ellie, if you leave them to 
give yourself to me?” 

“I cannot help it,” replied Ellen, — “they must say what they 
please — and with abundance of energy, and not a few tears, she 
went on ; — “ I love them, but I had given myself to you a great 
while ago ; long before I was his daughter, you called me your 
little sister — I can’t undo that, John, and I don’t want to — it 
doesn’t make a bit of difference that we were not born so !” 

John suddenly rose and began to walk up and down the room. 
Ellen soon came to his side, and leaning upon his arm as she had 
been used to do in past times, walked up and down with him, at 
first silently. 

“What is it you wanted me to do, John?” she said gently at 
length; “you said ‘two or three things.’ ” 

“ One is that you keep up a regular and full correspondence 
with me.” 


564 


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u I am very glad that you will let me do that,” said Ellen, — 
“ that is exactly what I should like, but ” 

“ What?” 

“ I am afraid they will not let me.” 

“I will arrange that.” 

“ Very well,” said Ellen joyously, — “ then it will do. Oh, it 
would make me so happy 1 And you will write to me ?” 

“ Certainly !” 

“ And I will tell you every thing about myself ; and you will 
tell me how I ought to do in all sorts of things ? that will be next 
best to being with you. And then you will keep me right.” 

“ I won’t promise you that, Ellie,” said John smiling ; — “ you 
must learn to keep yourself right.’ ’ 

“ I know you will, though, however you may smile. What 
next ?’ ’ 

“ Read no novels.” 

“I never do, John. I knew you did not like it, and I have 
taken good care to keep out of the way of them. If I had told 
any body why, though, they would have made me read a dozen.” 

“ Why Ellie !” said her brother, — “ you must need some care to 
keep a straight line where your course lies now.” 

“ Indeed I do, John,” said Ellen, her eyes filling with tears, — 
“ oh how I have felt that sometimes ! And then how I wanted 
you!” 

Her hand was fondly taken in his, as many a time it had been 
of old, and for a long time they paced up and down ; the conver- 
sation running sometimes in the strain that both loved and Ellen 
now never heard ; sometimes on other matters ; such a conver- 
sation as those she had lived upon in former days, and now drank 
in with a delight and eagerness inexpressible. Mr. Lindsay would 
have been in dismay to have seen her uplifted face, which, though 
tears were many a time there, was sparkling and glowing with life 
and joy in a manner he had never known it. She almost forgot 
what the morrow would bring, in the exquisite pleasure of the in- 
stant, and hung upon every word and look of her brother as if her 
life were there. 

“And in a few weeks,” said Ellen at length, “ you will be in 
our old dear sitting-room again, and riding on the Black Prince ! — 
and I shall be here ! — and it will be ” 

“ It will be empty without you, Ellie ; — but we have a friend 
that is sufficient ; let us love him and be patient.” 

“ It is very hard to be patient,” murmured Ellen. “ But dear 
John, there was something else you wanted me to do ? what is it ? 
you said 1 two or three’ things.” 

“ I will leave that to another time.” 

“ But why ? I will do it whatever it be — pray tell me.” 


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565 


“No,” said he smiling, — “not now, — you shall know by and by 
— the time is not yet. Have you heard of your old friend Mr. 
Van Brunt?” 

“ No — what of him?” 

“ He has come out before the world as a Christian man.” 

“Has he!” 

John took a letter from his pocket and opened it. 

“ You may see what my father says of him ; and what he says 
of you too Elbe ; — he has missed you much.” 

“Oh, I was afraid he would,” said Ellen, — “I was sure he 
did l” 

She took the letter, but she could not see the words. John told 
her she might keep it to read at her leisure. 

“And how are they all at Ventnor? and how is Mrs. Yawse? 
and Margery ?” 

“ All well. Mrs. Yawse spends about half her time at my 
father’s.” 

“I am very glad of that!” 

“ Mrs. Marshman wrote me to bring you back with me if I 
could, and said she had a home for you always at Ventnor.” 

“How kind she is,” said Ellen; — “ how many friends I find 
everywhere. It seems to me, John, that everybody almost loves 
me.” 

“ That is a singular circumstance ! However, I am no exception 
to the rule, Ellie.” 

“Oh, I know that,” said Ellen laughing. “And Mr. George?” 

“ Mr. George is well.” 

“How much I love him!” said Ellen. “ How much I would 
give to see him. I wish you could tell me about poor Captain and 
the Brownie, but I don’t suppose you have heard of them. Oh, 
when I think of it all at home, how I want to be there ! — Oh, 
John ! sometimes lately I have almost thought I should only see 
you again in heaven.” 

“ My dear Ellie ! I shall see you there, I trust ; but if we live 
we shall spend our lives here together first. And while we are 
parted we will keep as near as possible by praying for and writing 
to each other. And what God orders let us quietly submit to.” 

Ellen had much ado to command herself at the tone of these 
words and John’s manner, as he clasped her in his arms and kissed 
her brow and lips. She strove to keep back a show of feeling that 
would distress and might displease him. But the next moment 
her fluttering spirits were stilled by hearing the few soft words of 
a prayer that he breathed over her head. It was a prayer for her 
and for himself, and one of its petitions was that they might be 
kept to see each other again. Ellen wrote the words on her 
heart. 


48 


566 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 


“ Are you going?” 

He showed his watch. 

“ Well, I shall see you to-morrow 1” 

“ Shall you be here ?” 

“ Certainly — where else should I be? What time must you set 
out ?” 

“ I need not till afternoon, but — How early can I see you?” 

“ As early as you please. Oh, spend all the time with me you 
can, John !” 

So it was arranged. 

“ And now, Elbe, you must go down stairs and present me to 
Mr. Lindsay.” 

“ To my father !” 

For a moment Ellen’s face was a compound of expressions. She 
instantly acquiesced however, and went down with her brother, her 
heart it must be confessed going very pit-a-pat indeed. She took 
him into the library which was not this evening thrown open to 
company ; and sent a servant for Mr. Lindsay. While waiting for 
his coming, Ellen felt as if she had not the fair use of her senses. 
Was that John Humphreys quietly walking up and down the li- 
brary? Mr. Lindsay’s library? and was she about to introduce 
her brother to the person who had forbidden her to mention his 
name? There was something however in Mr. John’s figure and 
air, in his utter coolness, that insensibly restored her spirits. Tri- 
umphant confidence in him overcame the fear of Mr. Lindsay ; and 
when he appeared, Ellen with tolerable composure met him, her 
hand upon John’s arm, and said, “ Father, this is Mr. Humphreys,” 
— my brother she dared not add. 

“ I hope Mr. Lindsay will pardon my giving him this trouble,” 
said the latter; — “ we have one thing in common which should 
forbid our being strangers to each other. I, at least, was unwilling 
to leave Scotland without making myself known to Mr. Lindsay.” 

Mr. Lindsay most devoutly wished the ‘‘thing in common” had 
been anything else. He bowed, and was “happy to have the 
pleasure,” but evidently neither pleased nor happy. Ellen could 
see that. 

“May I take up five minutes of Mr. Lindsay’s time to explain, 
perhaps to apologize,” said John, slightly smiling, — “ for what I 
have said?” 

A little ashamed, it might be, to have his feeling suspected, Mr. 
Lindsay instantly granted the request, and politely invited his un- 
welcome guest to be seated. Obeying a glance from her brother 
which [ihe understood, Ellen withdrew to the further side of the 
room, where she could not hear what they said. John took up the 
history of Ellen’s acquaintance with his family, and briefly gave it 
to Mr. Lindsay, scarce touching on the benefits by them conferred 


THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD. 


567 


on her, and skilfully dwelling rather on Ellen herself and setting 
forth what she had been to them. Mr. Lindsay could not be un- 
conscious of what his visitor delicately omitted to hint at, neither 
could he help making secretly to himself some most unwilling ad- 
missions ; and though he might wish the speaker at the antipodes, 
and doubtless did, yet the sketch was too happily given, and his 
fondness for Ellen too great, for him not to be delightedly interested 
in what was said of her. And however strong might have been 
his desire to dismiss his guest in a very summary manner, or to 
treat him with haughty reserve, the graceful dignity of Mr. 
Humphreys’ manners made either expedient impossible. Mr. 
Lindsay felt constrained to meet him on his own ground — the 
ground of high-bred frankness ; and grew secretly still more afraid 
that his real feelings should be discerned. 

Ellen from afar, where she could not hear the words, watched 
the countenances with great anxiety and great admiration. She 
could see that while her brothel spoke with his usual perfect ease, 
Mr. Lindsay was embarrassed. She half read the truth. She saw 
the entire politeness where she also saw the secret discomposure, 
and she felt that the politeness was forced from him. As the con- 
versation went on, however, she wonderingly saw that the cloud on 
his brow lessened, — she saw him even smile ; and when at last they 
rose, and she drew near, she almost thought her ears were playing 
her false when she heard Mr. Lindsay beg her brother to go in 
with him to the company and be presented to Mrs. Lindsay. After 
a moment’s hesitation this invitation was accepted, and they went 
together into the drawing-room. 

Ellen felt as if she was in a dream. With a face as grave as 
usual, but with an inward exultation and rejoicing in her brother 
impossible to describe, she saw him going about among the com- 
pany, — talking to her grandmother, — yes and her grandmother did 
not look less pleasant than usual, — recognizing M. Muller, and in 
conversation with other people whom he knew. With indescribable 
glee Ellen saw that Mr. Lindsay managed most of the time to be 
of the same group. Never more than that night did she trium- 
phantly think that Mr. John could do any thing. He finished the 
evening there. Ellen took care not to seem too much occupied 
with him ; but she contrived to be near when he was talking with 
M. Muller, and to hang upon her father’s arm when he was in Mr. 
John’s neighbourhood. And when the latter had taken leave, and 
was in the hall, Ellen was there before he could be gone. And 
there came Mr. Lindsay too behind her ! 

“ You will come early to-morrow morning, John?” 

“ Come to breakfast, Mr. Humphreys, will you ?” said Mr. 
Lindsay, with sufficient cordiality. 

But Mr. Humphreys declined this invitation, in spite of the 


568 THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 

timid touch of Ellen’s fingers upon his arm, which begged for a 
different answer. 

“ I will be with you early, Ellie,” he said however. 

“ And oh ! John,” said Ellen suddenly, “ order a horse and let 
us have one ride together ; let me show you Edinburgh.” 

“ By all means,” said Mr. Lindsay, — “let us show you Edin- 
burgh ; but order no horses, Mr. Humphreys, for mine are at your 
service.” 

Ellen’s other hand was gratefully laid upon her father’s arm as 
this second proposal was made and accepted. 

“ Let m show you Edinburgh,” said Ellen to herself, as she and 
Mr. Lindsay slowly and gravely went back through the hall. “ So 
there is an end of my fine morning ! — But however, how foolish I 
am ! John has his own ways of doing things — he can make it 
pleasant in spite of every thing.” 

She went to bed, not to sleep indeed, for a long time, but to cry 
for joy and all sorts of feelings at once. 

Good came out of evil, as it often does, and as Ellen’s heart 
presaged it would when she arose the next morning. The ride was 
preceded by half an hour’s chat between Mr. John, Mr. Lindsay, 
and her grandmother ; in which the delight of the evening before 
was renewed and confirmed. Ellen was obliged to look down to 
hide the too bright satisfaction she felt was shining in her face. 
She took no part in the conversation, it was enough to hear. She 
sat with charmed ears, seeing her brother overturning all her 
father’s and grandmother’s prejudices, and making his own way to 
their respect at least, in spite of themselves. Her marvelling still 
almost kept even pace with her joy. “I knew he would do what 
he pleased,” she said to herself, — “I knew they could not help 
that ; but I did not dream he would ever make them like him, — 
that I never dreamed !” 

On the ride again, Ellen could not wish that her father were not 
with them. She wished for nothing ; it was all a maze of pleasure, 
which there was nothing to mar but the sense that she would by 
and by wake up and find it was a dream. And no, not that either. 
It was a solid good and blessing, which though it must come to an 
end, she should never lose. For the present there was hardly any 
thing to be thought of but enjoyment. She shrewdly guessed 
that Mr. Lindsay would have enjoyed it too, but for herself; there 
was a little constraint about him still, she could see. There was 
none about Mr. John ; in the delight of his words and looks and 
presence, Ellen half the time forgot Mr. Lindsay entirely ; she 
liad enough of them ; she did not for one moment wish Mr. Lind- 
say had less. 

At last the long beautiful ride came to an end ; and the rest of 
the morning soon sped away, though as Ellen had expected she 


THE WIDE , WIDE WORLD. 569 

was not permitted to spend any part of it alone with her brother. 
Mr. Lindsay asked him to dinner, but this was declined. 

Not till long after he was gone did Ellen read Mr. Humphreys’ 
letter. One bit of it may be given. 

“ Mr. Van Brunt has lately joined our little church. This has 
given me great pleasure. He had been a regular attendant for a 
long time before. He ascribes much to your instrumentality ; but 
says his first thoughts (earnest ones) on the subject of religion 
were on the occasion of a tear that fell from Ellen’s eye upon his 
hand one day when she was talking to him about the matter. He 
never got over the impression. In his own words , 1 it scared him !’ 
That was a dear child ! I did not know how dear till I had lost 
her. I did not know how severely I should feel her absence ; nor 
had I the least notion when she was with us of many things 
respecting her that I have learnt since. I half hoped we should 
yet have her back, but that will not be. I shall be glad to see 
you, my son.” 

The correspondence with John was begun immediately, and was 
the delight of Ellen’s life. Mrs. Lindsay and her daughter wished 
to put, a stop to it ; but Mr. Lindsay dryly said that Mr. Hum- 
phreys had frankly spoken of it before him, and as he made no 
objection then he could not now. 

Ellen puzzled herself a little to think what could be the third 
thing John wanted of her ; but whatever it were, she was very 
sure she would do it ! 

For the gratification of those who are never satisfied, one word 
shall be added, to wit, that 

The seed so early sown in little Ellen’s mind, and so carefully 
tended by sundry hands, grew in course of time to all the fair 
structure and comely perfection it had bid fair to reach — storms 
and winds that had visited it did but cause the root to take 
deeper hold ; — and at the point of its young maturity it happily 
fell again into those hands that had of all been most successful in 
its culture. — In other words, to speak intelligibly, Ellen did in no 
wise disappoint her brother’s wishes, nor he hers. Three or four 
more years of Scottish discipline wrought her no ill ; they did but 
serve to temper and beautify her Christian character ; and then, to 
her unspeakable joy, she went back to spend her life with the 
friends and guardians she best loved, and to be to them, still more 
than she had been to her Scottish relations, “ the light of the eyes.” 


THE END. 


48 * 



MISS CAREY’S STORIES 

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